The Unkindness of Ravens
by Phoenix365
Summary: It's been one year since that fateful party, and the anniversary casts a pall over PV's citizens. To get past it, they've gotta go through it.
1. Chapter 1

We just passed a one-year mark we won't soon forget. I've often wondered what came next and what could have come from some missed story opportunities over the years. This is my attempt to satisfy that curiosity and hopefully tell a compelling story in the process. I will try my best to tell **everyone's** story. No budgets, no contract negotiations, no hatchet-job execs to interfere, which is both inspiring and a little intimidating. That being said, I'm going to say 'Sorry' in advance. Every plot decision is for the sake of the story I wanted to tell.

And so it begins...

####

It was a well-guarded secret, but black always suited her. The color demanded attention because the world bowed to its simple power. It absorbed all else, including the overcompensating, cowardly yellow and the dull, predictable Brooke English brown. Even red - her public fashion of choice - with its brazen boldness that always dripped, just a little, of desperation.

Cloaked in the black of nightfall, she was protected from the worst offender: a uniform litany of gray…an endless procession. She wrapped the designer scarf tighter around her neck, unsure of whether the slightly stifling pressure against her skin was truly a comfort. Then she lay her offering – a single light pink rose – on the chilled ground. The only complementary color in this dreadful spectrum. It was her companion's favorite. Instantly, a jolt of warmth coursed through her fingertips and she smiled.

"Some of those people…" She punctuated the introduction with a miffed hair toss, an emblem she had perfected since her first twirl in front of that small dusted mirror in her bedroom of lifetimes ago. "Some would say that feeling was just a change in the air pressure or a product of my overly emotional mind, but I think we know better. Oh, mother." She winked and the mischievous glint in her eye tempered into something the rest of the world scarcely saw amidst the whirl of the flashbulbs. "You always know exactly what I need. Always."

Those flashbulbs brought their own brand of warmth, and she would be lying if she did not admit how she relished that sensation on most occasions. Increasingly over the years, however, she found that they produced a sheen of oppressive heat that warmed her skin yet burned deeply and without mercy in other ways.

"I did it this time. I called them off; I called off the whole production. And I know what you're thinking. Yes, it was partly by necessity. Obviously, they cannot have a leading lady who-"

The words , even though they were first heard a little less than a year ago, still would not find concrete form. No, the only concrete on this landscape were those damnable gray slabs and their cruel, ever-multiplying indifference.

"I need to be here. I know I've spent most of my life claiming otherwise and running in a million ways, big and small. But who am I kidding? I never did anything small. You know that better than anyone. And maybe I finally realize something else you've known all along. I just, I need…" She captured the renegade drop of water with one skilled swipe. "Dominating the conversation with talk of my favorite subject, but you adapted to my unique – okay, maddening – sensibilities early on, didn't you? I don't know how you did it or why I wasn't in a home for wayward children by the time I turned sixteen, but I want you to know that I never took it for granted. Okay, a tiny white lie. I always did, but despite my bluster and my -" She gave an exaggerated shudder . "My 'hissy fits,' I always loved you. I think you knew that part. What you might not know is this." She leaned in closer to share her secret, until her cheek grazed the marble. "I always respected you." A hand tenderly traced the fain indentations in the stone. "You were, you **are** the strongest person I know. I will be strong for them and for myself, because that's what we do. That's what you taught us."

She gazed at her mother's neighbors, illuminated by the moonlight: the cool, neutral grays that were somehow supposed to symbolize once-full, vibrant lives. Perhaps they were truly symbol of quiet strength, just perhaps.

"Take care of them."

Erica raised up, but a pair of piercing eyes halted her ascent. The two shared a look. More a brief glance that nonetheless stretched seconds into minutes before the raven melted into the night. Fingers found her head again. This time, however, the patented hair toss was replaced with slower, more deliberate motions. When she was finished, Erica placed her state-of-the-art, custom-made wig beside the pink rose. A fine mist immediately staked its claim to smooth skin.

"I'm ready." She took a deep breath of the damp, freeing air. "I love you, Mom."

Erica turned and headed for the church.

####

The calm was supposed to come before the storm.

That was a damn lie. Enough corporate power plays and double dealings had acquainted him with the harsh fact – the one he once considered his secret weapon – that destruction itself was measured in quiet breaths and inaudible mutterings. Chaos bore the arms, the hands, the heart of a wild, calculating animal but wore the face of a sweet child.

He stood in the very spot with his one meager defense: his precious brandy. The first sip tasted of his brother's blood, now a faint stain underneath his feet one might dismiss as an impromptu cranberry juice accident. No, that particular mark was painted over by bigger, brighter, more ambitious stains….ones that would not and could not bear any false labels. It was, after all, the Chandler way.

Sipping, sipping until sipping no longer fit the action. In his ever-so-calm cocoon, he did not quite recall the visuals behind these new-old additions to his living room. They were merely blurs. What threaded through his every waking night was the silence, not punctuated by screams or shouts but by faint, faint gasps. And fainter still: cherished, stolen words...

The eye of the storm always took its deadly aim. His eyes warred, battled, and finally settled on a gold-rimmed, chipped picture frame. Out of view, but not quite forgotten.

When a soft hand touched his shoulder, he did not start at the whispered, "Are you ready?" He nodded and left the picture to its darkness.

####

She entered the packed church. Heads did not turn. Whisperings did not inform the solemn silence. For once, Erica Kane did not command a room. Eternal smiles housed in the five frames placed in front of the altar did.


	2. Chapter 2

First, sincere thanks to everyone who gave this a read. It's always much appreciated. In addition to the show itself, this story was partially inspired by some of the real-world happenings we've heard about the past few months. We always see the immediate after-effects of a mass shooting, but how do those most affected cope? Can they eventually get to that healing place, and how? I wanted to stay true to what the finale set up and really explore the ramifications for everyone. This event's a catalyst for each character's individual story, stories that might find themselves converging and mixing it up down the road…

####

"I kinda suspect you'd hate all this, but we need it. Yes, even me. I know I didn't make it easy, but you were there for me during one of the worst times of my life." When her voice broke a fraction, she steadied it. "A real friend, you know? Not the kind who has a hand out expecting something in return. You could deal with my brand of crazy, because you'd seen it a million times over in your life and you stared it down with a shrug and a smile. You helped give me my heart back, figuratively and literally." Kendall reclined into the arms that had circled around her. "I'll never forget that, and we'll never forget you."

They stood before the memorial for Griffin Castillo, and she felt Zach's breaths synchronize with her own. Mutual strength.

Words wrapped in warm gravel were whispered into her ear. "Your mom's here."

An observation or a warning, she couldn't be sure. Taking a final strengthening breath, she turned around. She supposed her first reaction should've been shock or at least surprise, but she didn't really feel any of those things. Not today. Instead, she stayed true to her Kaneness, indulged in her first impulse, and gave her approaching mother a fierce hug. Tiny, yet powerful arms instantly returned the embrace. A minor miracle in itself. Ten years ago, those arms would've been drawing back for an Erica Kane-special double-slap instead.

Kendall leaned back and touched a tender spot just above an exposed left ear. Her mother's pulse beat strong. "I'm glad you decided to -"

"Oh, this, honey, is the next big fashion trend. You just wait, in another two weeks, everyone will be sporting this look." Erica's hand brushed her scalp for effect before landing and lingering on her daughter's hand. She brought their interlocked fingers down before giving them a squeeze.

Kendall smiled. "I give it two days."

Erica cleared her throat. She regarded the empty seat next to Kendall. "Is your sister here yet?"

"I…I don't think she's coming." As her watery smile wavered. Kendall braced herself for 'the look.' Her mother did not disappoint.

"Honey, she has to -"

"Mom, she's not the same."

"I know she was having a hard time before I went away but she's always -"

"A hard time? No, it's a lot -" She heard the accusation seeping into her voice, but she wasn't going to give it free reign. Not here. "Everyone's got a limit, Mom. Everyone."

Erica's face had lost some of its previous fire. In the quieter moments, when she was only left to herself, Kendall had to wonder if her own mirror would hold the same reflection. She still couldn't test the theory. During the past year, she'd found herself in a most unfamiliar role: the sensible one, the steady one. It was a role she neither wanted or was particularly good at. As long as her mother still ran away at the first sign of trouble, as long as Jack ran just as hard in the opposite direction, and as long as she looked at her sister on the rare occasions they were even together now and saw something even more unsettling - her own younger self –then it was a role Kendall had to take. Not by choice. By necessity.

"I should have stayed," Erica said.

She could offer no reassurance. They'd been down this road before, but obviously time did not always heal. Watching as her husband stood a silent vigil beside an equally silent Krystal Carey - in the spot where her sister should have been - Kendall had to acknowledge that, sometimes, time only kills softly and slowly.

####

He whispered words he knew didn't mean a whole hell of a lot. She simply nodded and continued examining her daughter's face. Committing it to memory.

She told him once, with her gaze on the floor the whole time, that she was afraid she would forget. 'I had two years, but right now it seems more like two minutes,' she'd said. He, for once, had been silent. He knew the things she would never have the chance to forget haunted her more. First word, first steps, first day of school…proms, graduations….the years measured in minutes. Parents were supposed to hand down the photo album so their children could fill it with new life. It was never intended to be a mausoleum of memories.

With Babe, they had the distraction of the drugs and Hayward being Hayward that consumed their attention. Redirected the hurt. But now…now there was only that big, gaping quiet hole that all of the drugged milk in the world couldn't fill. He knew Jenny helped; she might've been the salvation, but that was too much pressure to put on any kid. It was on him – Tad Martin, jokester extraordinaire – to make sure the mother of his child didn't go tumbling down that hole.

But what magical formula existed to wipe away the pain of watching two of your children lowered into the ground? Sure as hell not the Flintstone vitamin sing-a-long he'd concocted at Stuart's funeral all those years ago.

Stuart.

He and Marian got their miracle. A year ago, those miracles were in no short supply. Now, Tad witnessed the remnants of that 'miracle' as Stuart hung his head, his wife by his side. His amazing re-entrance into the world had come on the same day as his son's sudden exit. The spontaneous celebration of a miraculous resurrection had become the scene of a mass sacrifice.

And the hand holding the bloody knife –

He did his level best to push the thought away, because stumbling down that particular path never ended well for him or his new wife.

He was her rock, she was his star, and together they were 'rockstar.' Tad put a quick clamp on the urge to chuckle at the stupid joke. Those little asides either confirmed his need for a ticket to Oak Haven or they kept him sane. He still wasn't quite sure which.

Instead, he joined Dixie so he could do his duty as that plastic rock. He draped an arm around her shoulder and brought their foreheads together. "We can go," he muttered.

She had insisted they come. A part of him knew it was essential for her.

Offering a weak smile and a slight nod, she whispered, "I'm fine."

_Liar_.

Tad gave her a tender forehead kiss. "I…I'd like to go see Dad after, but if you -"

"I'll be there." She looked up at him in that way that always made everything matter a little more. "We're in this together."

"Forever," he finished.

Their attention was diverted by the steady stream of newcomers entering through the church'sdoor. His brother – the one who had been the last face many of the memorialized saw – nodded and ushered himself and Amanda in their direction.

Tad's heart both lifted and weighted in some crazy paradox as the younger members of the Hubbard family followed through the entrance. New detective Brot Monroe held his fiancee's hand and guided her toward the nearest seat. When she stood before the pew, he softly pressed her shoulders until she sat, facing forward. Facing him. The tremors in her upper body dwindled, but did not disappear.

He looked away with a mixture of shame and relief and focused his attention on the small bundle between Frankie and Randi. The tiny yawn on those even tinier features let him grab a relaxed breath, and he greedily took it before shifting his eyes to the figure now looming in the doorway.

His best friend. Another miracle gone topsy-turvy. Widow-maker turned widower.

When the tell-tale silver hair appeared just behind Jesse, his first thought was that the widower might soon make a widow of Brooke. This time, his unspoken joke played to the deadest silence.

####

_Oh, no_.

This scene was looking way too familiar. Large gatherings – hell, 'gatherings' of more than one – had a way of bringing out the worst in Pine Valleyites. She'd been the guest of honor at a few herself. There was the nice wedding gift she gave her father and Erica at their first ill-fated trip down the aisle. The quite literal roasting she bestowed upon her BFF at Thanksgiving. Or who could forget her last wedding from hell, when she walked down the aisle of this very church to announce to the world that yay! she was in fact alive, and said world had better take notice.

Now, as the two men stood eye to eye in front of the church, she thought that another one of David's ready-made miracles would be perfect right about now. They'd take their own turn down that aisle one by one, smiles bigger and more real than the ones on those flimsy pieces of paper meant as poor stand-ins. Griffin would lead the way in that annoying superhero doc way he had. He'd give Kendall a light kiss that would kick off the latest chapter in the star-crossed saga that was Zach and Kendall, and then he'd go off in search of his mysteriously absent sister. Scott would stroll in after, giving her that charming grin that had scrambled her brains momentarily – okay, for more than a moment – when she first hit town. She would even slip him a cell phone so he could call Madison in Boston and either make her the happiest woman on the planet or put her in a fainting heap on the spot. More importantly, he would go up there and put the light back in his Dad's eyes, because a Pine Valley without Stuart Chandler's special brand of bright was like Christmas without Father Clarence. Scott's best friend would follow his lead, and Marissa would give her mother that second chance she obviously desperately needed. While she was at it, she could also rescue Greenlee's cousin from the Bizarro Bianca that was currently inhabiting her body Next, Greenlee would be the first to lay eyes on the woman who once saved her life: the woman whose certain trek led only to the shattered man at the front of the church. They would embrace in that quiet way that still amplified everything around them tenfold, and everything would be okay. The world would be right-side-up again.

_Almost, anyway, if –_

She shook her head, wiping away the little-girl wishes that never were or would be. Instead, she braced herself for the shouts and punches that would quickly turn this memorial into a front-page, headline-grabbing 'Memorial Mayhem!' spread. Hey, they could have bald Erica as the sideshow caption.

Greenlee didn't even have the heart for a good snark about that one. She reached for a hand that wasn't there and settled for digging her nails into her palm instead. Jesse and Adam's showdown finally came to a head as the cop stepped aside. She could see that all-too familiar hardness in his eyes give just a fraction as the older man nodded and passed him, bowing in front of the final memorial picture. Adam rested his chin on level with his daughter's. Silently, he traced a trembling line down her cheek. When his forehead pressed against the altar, Greenlee turned away. She knew what came next, and she couldn't see it. Not again.

The man in the suit was just a flash, a grateful distraction from the soft sob that echoed through the church. A latecomer paying respects? A crashing reporter? Ryan?

She'd told him he should be here, for all the good she knew it would do. But if he had actually decided to come, why would he leave? Sure, things had been…strained, but why would he cut out on everyone else who supposedly mattered to him?

Something tugged at her, compelled her.

Angered, admittedly needing a distraction, and – compelled – she quietly slipped from the last row of pews and began scanning the outer corridor. Nothing or no one greeted her but the usual relics and oil paintings.

One bright streak did make itself conspicuous in the stark surroundings. When Greenlee approached the piece of cloth, the familiarity grew more intense. With its emergence came the onset of the pulsing white light and the accompanying assault inside her skull. This time, she didn't cry out in pain or stumble into any furniture. She simply and gladly gave in to the darkness.


	3. Chapter 3

Thanks again to everyone who's stuck with the story. I know things are, well…angsty, but there is a plan: a method to the madness.

About the title: The town's not gonna get taken over by cannibalistic ravens or anything like that, although that idea has been tempting at times : ) It's more of a symbolic thing that has to do with where the characters are now and my long-term plan for where they will be.

Now, time to catch up with a few of the MIA memorial-goers...

####

She couldn't imagine any fancy-schmancy runway in Paris that could beat this. The lead model strutted down the carpeted aisle in a glittery get-up that could rival Erica Kane.'s wardrobe, both in style and in size. Although she'd probably do best not to let her gal pal in on that last thought. This model - with her hair dolled up in the latest pink and purple zebra stripes -insisted on being the first out because she was,of course, the oldest. A mini-diva wouldn't be denied her moment in the limelight, though. Straightening her topsy-turvy orange curls and batting the eyes coated in a shade of blue that might've originated in the land of Oz, she showed proudly that she had inherited her grandmother's flare for the outrageous. Said grandma would just call it an appreciation for the glamorous, however. The models' charming escort rocked down the runway with a little dance number that was gonna break a million hearts someday, and maybe a few on the playground now. She was proud to say her hair-dressing prowess hadn't totally flown the coop yet. She'd been the genius – or the culprit – behind all the amazing displays today, including the boy's slicked-up spikes. She'd had to give that one a few creative adjustments, but he had insisted. Just, as she suspected, his daddy would have at that age. She let out a startled yelp when an especially enthusiastic dance move went a bit off-kilter and sent the little move-maker, spikes and all, plowing into his big cousin.

Opal waited with hand on her mouth for the inevitable munchkin showdown, but Jenny simply harrumphed an exasperated "Trevor!" and returned to her posing, with a hair toss for good measure. Someone had gotten their little fingers on old videos of the queen diva herself.

Peppering the room with whistles and hollers, Opal clapped heartily. She'd give the little ones this, especially today. When the babysitting talk had started, she gladly offered her services. No payments. A familiar face. She'd even faked a cough. Just not feeling up to par. Any excuse. She could only admit to herself the real reason for her offer. Her Opal Special brand of comfort worked with kids. Otherwise, it was either a humorous nod or a head-shaking nuisance at weddings, bachelorette parties, and the occasional holiday disaster.

Solemn silence especially, she couldn't do. She always felt terribly out of place at sad events. Normally, being the bright feather in the cap fit her. But in that deep quiet, the feather always floated away. Useless. She'd learned that lesson the hard way many, many years ago. On days like today, those years were like yesterday.

That's why she had left her other charges to their quiet corners. But as the star trio of Emma, Jenny, and Trevor scattered and prepared for their next show, Opal braced herself and approached the first corner.

"We can gussy you up too, sweetie. I'll betcha that extra dress I've got'll—"

Kathy shook her head, watching the other children leave. "No thanks."

Opal tousled the girl's hair, which proved difficult since she'd cut it so short. "What's the matter? Too old for a Glamorama Special?"

Kathy studied her hands. "It's not that. It's just –" she shrugged, trailing off.

"I know today's tough, sweetie." Opal sat down beside her granddaughter. "I'm just trying to remind you that despite everything, the world can still be a happy place." She wrinkled her nose. "That didn't sound too corny, did it?"

Kathy offered up her first smile. It was beautiful in its crooked way, and Opal didn't see it nearly enough for her liking. "No, Glamma. Actually, I think it's really helping Jenny. She acts like losing her sister doesn't bother her, but I know it does. Last night, she was saying Rissa's name in her sleep."

Opal's heart broke even more at that. Her eyes moved to the final figure in the room: the one hunched over a piece of paper. "How is AJ doing?"

In the land of crazy questions, that one took the cake. Just a year ago, in one day he'd lost his mother, his aunt…and his father. Opal wished she could say she still knew that little boy with the wide innocent eyes and the mop top. Sadly, she couldn't.

Kathy sighed. "He hasn't said anything to anyone since he's been here. I tried to look at his picture, though. I thought I'd tell him it was good. Something, you know? But he just snatched it right out of my hand before I could see it and gave me this look –"

The smile had disappeared, and the all-too familiar look perennially gracing her granddaughter's features had returned.

"Everyone who loves that little boy will help him through this," Opal said, struggling a bit to believe her own words. She put her hand over the knuckles that had captivated Kathy's attention. "Sweetie, is something else bothering you?"

The girl relaxed at the soft touch. She lifted her eyes.

The quiet was doing its darnedest again. Opal's mouth dried as her granddaughter's opened just slightly.

When the squeaking of the front door broke the silence, she couldn't deny that she was a bit relieved..

Caleb Courtlandt materialized in the hallway, in his trademark plaid that normally would have created quite a different reaction in her other than the current uneasiness.

'Don't do this today,' she thought as she saw David Hayward by his side.

But then again, wasn't today, of all days, the perfect day to execute their plan?

####

The kiss, equally as tender as the cheek stroke, turned long and languid. With deliberate slowness, she pulled away from her lover.

Fingertips brushed her lips before trekking to tuck a stray strand of hair behind her ear. "That was –"

She grinned wickedly, lifting an eyebrow. "Mind-blowing? Amazing? World-rocking, or at least -"

The finger moved back to her lips. This time, to silence her. "Right." Two blue eyes, inches from her own, misted. "I don't regret anything."

Her grin settled into a smile as her hand glided down a damp body. Satisfied by the intermingling sigh and groan when her fingers rested, she leaned over and whispered a final sweet-nothing into her lover's ear: "I think you might."

Bianca drew back from the confused woman. It was time to dispense with the pleasantries, pleasant as they might be. "You have a key to his office, right? I know you're just a secretary, but the guy's given you access, I'm sure. The sweet, doe-eyed types always get access."

"Wha-what?"

"I'll take that as a yes," she said, studying her nails even as the sheets rustled.

Her companion wouldn't get up. It wouldn't be proper, after all. Besides, she couldn't think of a more fitting place to conduct negotiations.

"I'm sure you're aware of your boss' alleged…activities," she continued. "Maybe you're involved, maybe you're not." She shrugged. "That part doesn't really matter to me."

"And what does matter to you?"

Ah, finally, a dialogue again. She didn't want to have to go all Shakespearean monologue here.

"The truth matters." This time she did meet those eyes, which still didn't possess the fire she wanted or needed. "It's all that matters," she finished.

"Really? Where was your precious truth an hour ago? A day ago? A few weeks ago when I first saw you again and thought –" She cut herself off. "Was it always about this? My job? My _access_?"

The last word dripped with an emotion she'd become intimately familiar with. She dsmissed it with one shake of the head and bit her lip to suppress, or bring forth, the smirk. "No, that wasn't all. You have picked up some nice –" Her eyes slowly trekked the body still covered in its paper-thin sheet of virtue – "tricks along the way."

The flinch wouldn't quite bring the satisfaction she was aiming for.

"What happened to you?" Still, no anger. No fire. Damnit, why wouldn't she just - "What happened to that girl that wanted to kick the stars?"

"Life happened, Sarah." No snappy comeback. No witty retort. Just the automated response. The truth. "Just life."

Confusion, hurt, disappointment passed the face across from her, and a hint of something that by God wouldn't have its say.

"I want you to take this –" Bianca reached over to the dresser drawer and pulled out the small device. "I want you to put it underneath his desk. Maybe I won't get a top-secret meeting, but I'll get a nice bit of boasting at some point, I'm sure. Guys like him, their arrogance always gets them in the end. "

"I won't –"

"But you will, I think." She took a now-cold hand in her own, pulling it towards her as it tried to move away. She caressed that tiny spot just above the thumb – a weak spot, she knew – until it yielded. She placed the surveillance device on Sarah's open palm, then she moved her finger to a dark corner of the room, punctuated only by a faint red light. "If you'/re worried about handling surveillance equipment, don't be. I can teach you. I have some experience in the matter."

The hand stiffened beneath her. "You recorded us?"

"Yes, I'm afraid it's a weakness of mine." She paused the perfected amount of time before offering her innocent observation. "It really would be quite unfortunate if a certain bright prospective Congressman had a tarnish put on his family-values platform." She still had to drive the point home. Close the deal. "I'd say finding the great young hope's wife in a compromising – to say the least – position with another woman might be good for, oh, at least fifteen minutes of newsbytes. But that's all it takes, right?" She tapped her chin with a fingernail. "Although it might be more than fifteen, though. We really did put on quite a show."

No tears. No proclamations of hatred. Just closing fingers. She had her answer, but, once again, the satisfaction wouldn't come.

This time, Sarah did remove herself from the tangle of sheets. Bianca watched as she quietly put on her clothes, picked up her purse, and slipped the bug inside it.

She turned to Bianca "I don't respect my boss. He's a louse, and I was counting the days until I could stop working for him." She crossed her arms over her heart. "I would've done it anyway, if you had _asked_. I would've done it for someone I…loved. But that someone doesn't exist anymore." And with that, she made a move for the door.

No. She didn't get the last say. Bianca pushed down and clamped the useless things that wanted to take control of her. Instead, in the steadiest voice, _she_ got the final word. "By the way, when you're performing your wifely duties tonight, don't think of me. Get through it some other way, but you won't use me to do it. I would advise, however, taking a shower beforehand. To remove any _reminders_."

The door closed not with a clatter or a bang, but with a soft click She stared at the camera's eye watching her. Lifting the blanket, she removed the things clouding her vision and her thoughts with one fierce swipe. Schooling every muscle in her face, she lowered the blanket and gave the spying eye one impressive Kane glare. She'd learned she was quite natural at it.

Especially in business. Picking up the nearby phone, she hesitated at the blinking icon flashing on the screen. Against her better judgment, she tapped the screen, revealing the message from two hours earlier:

"Please come with us. You need this. –K."

When her shaking finger missed the delete button, she cursed before jabbing the button forcefully. The screen went blank.

The equally forceful exhale helped still her hand, but it couldn't quite do the same for her mind. She filled the empty space with her own message: the testament to her control.

"Brooke, I have an in. We'll get what we need soon." She pressed 'Send' and turned the phone off. It would remain off for the rest of the day.

With minimal effort, she dressed. That part, at least, had gotten easier. She carefully positioned herself, grasped the steel bars, and did not shiver at their chill. Truthfully, she didn't feel it. Nor did she react when her leg knocked against the dresser. As she maneuvered into the seat of the wheelchair, the familiar numbness settled. She felt nothing.

Nothing at all.

####

She smiled, placing the bottle of black mole sauce amidst the corn. The stuff was always his weakness. He'd joked once that he missed it more than toilet paper during their stint in that especially remote African village. The corn assured his life would continue, and the sauce would help it stay picante. And he wouldn't need the requisite water to protect him, because she knew he could hand those evil spirits their…backside all on his own, with a grin to boot.

Cara stepped back and evaluated her handiwork. They'd preferred the simplicity of the ofrendas to the elaborate and ornate traditional memorials of their faith. When they were in DWB, they'd tried to make one, however small and rudimentary, for as many patients as they could. It was her duty – her honor - to find out those little things that mattered: those details that would fill the tiny altars with the unique essence of the memorialized.

She'd hated the funeral, with all of its overblown ceremony and ritual, although she had neither the heart nor the courage to tell her mother that it was something her brother would have never wanted. That's why she couldn't go today. More formality, more wooden ornaments drowning in dark colors. She would acknowledge the day that overshadowed a hundred field surgeries in her own way.

Uttering a silent prayer, she put the finishing touch on the altar's centerpiece. The tiny flame burned bright.

"I love you, Griff. Always."

She raised her head and tuned out the shouts and the ever-constant loudness that characterized the place where she'd tried to revalidate the oaths she'd taken as a doctor. By treating the individuals who most challenged them, maybe she could remind herself that those professional and personal promises still mattered.

The approaching commotion outside her door made the tuning out impossible. Reluctantly leaving her brother, Cara raced into the prison's corridor. Two of the guards separated. The third she pushed aside, revealing the bloodied man on the stretcher.

A part of her knew it was inevitable, and a part could even appreciate the sick irony of facing it today. Her greatest challenge.

JR Chandler.


	4. Chapter 4

I'm sorry for the lack of an update last week, but I had a beach that was calling my name, if only for a little while :)

I realized that I haven't given the usual disclaimers, so...

I do not own these characters or their histories. ABC does, or at least I think they do. Not that they des...(cough)

Sorry about that. Onto the next installment...

####

Watching the girl currently draped on the bench made him appreciate life's little ironies. At one time, his whole world – or a significant portion of it – would have hinged on whether or not she opened her eyes. A greater part would have hinged on the words that came out of those small but spicy lips afterward…

"What the hell?"

Well, nobody would ever mistake Greenlee Smythe for a fairy tale princess with fairy tale words. She emerged from her little nap not with a dainty sigh and a kiss for her nearby prince, but with a scowl and a pair of puppyish wide eyes that looked like they could kill a puppy.

Jake just smirked while the dutiful prince assumed his position and stated, "You fainted, Greens."

Truth be told, Jake had never cared much for Ryan Lavery, his knight suit with the rusty armor, or his blatant habit of stating the obvious.

Greenlee rubbed her head. "The memorial, I was –"

"It's been over for an hour, Greens. I found you outside a little while ago, and got the doc over there to check you out." He was doing that whisper-thing of his that aimed for sincere but somehow just made the recipient want to gift him with a firm head-thwacking, or at least a sound punch in the face.

Greenlee did neither. Instead, she just gave her fiancé a glare that neatly accomplished the same effect. "Why did you leave?"

"I've been here the whole time since I found you. Jake knows that."

Jake knew a great many things about Lavery, starting with his penchant for snaking other men's wives and ending with a favored pasttime of playing dead when it mattered, both in the figurative and literal sense. He nodded.

"Not the _whole_ time," she emphasized.

"I told you I had to –"

"Just save it," Greenlee huffed in her uniquely Greenlee way. _Good girl_. "I saw you during the service, and then you left."

Ryan reached a hand out. "Greenlee, I think that you hit –"

She swatted the hand away. _Really good girl_.' "I saw you," she firmly restated.

He pinched the bridge of his nose and took a step back. "I just got here, Greenlee. If you saw somebody, it wasn't me."

Her expression took on a form that made Jake want to warn Ryan about possibly taking another step back. He resisted the urge.

"Dammit, it had to be –" Just as quickly, that animated face went through a few more phases, finally settling on an impressive double eyebrow lift. "The cloth, I need to –"

And with that, she was nearly off to the races. If Jake hadn't taken the opportunity to finally assert his forgotten presence, that was. "Woah, there, Speedy. Hold up a minute."

Greenlee struggled in his deliberately light grip. He knew from personal experience not to let the size fool anyone. Chihuahuas had the biggest bite.

"Let me go, or I'll –"

"Easy now. Just tell me what it is that's got you jonesing to get out there, and I'll check it out. You need to -"

"If you say lie down, I'll…stomp your toe."

His quick appraisement of her heels made a believer out of him. "I was gonna say rest," he offered with a grin and a shrug. "Just tell me," he said.

Greenlee crossed her arms. After the proper silent treatment, she muttered, "A piece of cloth, on the table near the door. "

A quick round trip garnered a fruitless search. He relayed the news to a none-too-pleased little fireball.

Ryan chimed in. "Greens, I don't see why that matters when _this_ happened again." This time, he couldn't deny the genuine concern in the other man's voice.

"Again?" Jake asked.

"It's nothing," she affirmed a little too emphatically and a little too quickly. "Probably just low blood sugar."

"Like the last –"

"I'm fine," she said between gritted teeth, her gaze never quite breaking completely from the empty hallway.

"That's probably true," Jake said. "All the same, I would feel better if we took a quick trip to the hospital. Amanda and I are going there tonight anyway."

This did get her attention. "For –"

"Yes." And that's all he could say on that subject. "So please, come with us."

He didn't think she had a concussion and he knew when to back down, but he also knew he'd seen too many faces that were the picture of fine one minute and anything but just a split second later. Today, more than any other, had brought those faces forward. And he damn sure wasn't going to add another face he cared about to that particular memory file.

She appeared to be considering it. That, at least, was progress. "It's late," she finally offered. "I don't have to be at Fusion early tomorrow. So, first thing in the morning, I'll let you fondle my…wrist," she said, giving him a wink and a smirk as well. "I warn you, though, needles and I don't get along."

Jake grinned in return, admittedly enjoying the rise she was surely getting out of Ryan. "It's a date. And luckily for you, needles and myself are on the best of terms. I'll introduce you."

"I'll take –"

Ryan never got a chance to finish that thought.

"I'll take myself, just like I did tonight."

Jake gave the man a semi-sympathetic shoulder pat as he prepared to follow his fiancé through the door.

Before she reached the opening, though, she faced him again, speaking more softly this time: the voice of the other Greenlee he knew, the one behind the bluster. "How was it?" she asked.

"The service was simple, but it was beautiful." He paused. "It mattered."

Ryan looked away quickly. Greenlee only had a ghost of a smile. "I'm sorry I missed it," she said.

The faces were flashing before him again, not in a nice slow montage set to music, but fast and furious. When a less defined face flashed past the window's pane, he attested it to now-flickering, mercifully fading images

After the final, too-familiar face took its temporary leave, he realized he'd been left to an empty room.

####

Mom's tiger protected her every night, and she had tamed him with ease. When confronted (and drooled on) by the sweet face with the trademark dimples, who wouldn't be reduced to a kitten?

She certainly had that effect on her mother…and even more on her father, although he prided himself on claiming he was the 'authoritative' one. Hard to claim that honor, though, when said authority figure was firmly wrapped around one tiny but powerful finger.

She certainly made it easy to forget. Frankie used to feel guilty about that, but as his daughter shifted slightly and let out a small yawn and dreaming smile that made full effect of her dimples, he realized again that she would likewise make it impossible to ever truly forget her grandmother.

He had no doubt his mother would be flashing those same dimples right now, reminding him that she was never going anywhere: half-joking, half-threatening, and completely serious. Her faith had carried her through so much, and he knew it helped make her the strong woman she was…

_Was_.

That word: he caught himself unconsciously, or maybe consciously, abandoning it in conversation sometimes. Even in his most private thoughts, it still felt…forced.

He'd tried to grasp onto the same faith that had sustained his mom. Every Sunday, he and Randi would bundle up little Angie faithfully and arrive early at the church.

It had helped. He did find a degree of peace, and the secure presence of his family did make the tight lump in his throat loosen just a little more every day.

Secure arms wrapped around him now, and soft lips brushed his cheek.

He told the owner of those arms that it was never some higher power that he talked to every night in Iraq. It was his mom's voice reassuring him. It wasn't a bright light he saw when lit-up skies and booming explosions made him think not of the Fourth, but of Memorial Day. It was his mom's image encouraging him not to give up.

He told her how the lump was there by necessity because this time was supposed to be different. He wasn't supposed to cry hysterically or scream, because he wasn't that little kid that didn't understand why his parent wasn't coming back. He was supposed to reassume his long-held role of the man of the household. The rock. Meanwhile, the smaller rock that represented everything he wasn't supposed to do or feel had settled securely in his throat.

He told her that it was different. The grief. The pain. It had just been them for so long, against the world. As much as he loved his father, he wasn't there for the hastily hidden report cards or the burnt but lovingly made cupcakes that signaled a good grade. He wasn't there for 'the talks,' or the admonishments quickly followed by hugs when the lessons peppered through those talks were sometimes forgotten. Frankie had learned to survive without his father, but his mother had been his lifeline. And now, that lifeline was gone.

He told her that she and his daughter made him remember that breathing could be easy. He told her that they would always be each other's lifelines.

He told her all of this silently, with a returned hug.

"I've been thinking." These thoughts did find a voice.

"Always a dangerous proposition." Frankie felt his wife's smirk against his neck as she nuzzled it, no doubt keeping one watchful eye on their sleeping daughter.

"Ha, ha." He turned around so he could face her. Even in the darkness, he knew every feature. Lacing their hands, he pulled her into the remaining seat. "I'd like to get your opinion on something."

She began massaging his knee, a familiar Mother Hen trait. She _did_ know him.

"I know things got a little tense between Adam and your dad, but I think he's just dealing in his own way. We'll take Angie to visit him tomorrow."

Frankie sighed. Despite everything, he did understand Dad. Although he didn't share his father's anger at Adam Chandler, he understood the need and the compulsion to blame the easiest available target. Chandler Junior wasn't exactly available, so his father – his mentor – was the next best thing. He also knew that he needed to respect his father's process. His anger phase was just a little longer than most. That, Frankie once understood all too well.

"I think that's a good idea," he said. "We'll always be there for Dad and Nat, but they're not what I wanted to talk to you about." He hesitated, because even though he'd mentioned the subject in the past, he was never entirely sure how Randi felt about it. "It is about family, though."

He indulged in the lightness her wide-eyed and ever-so-slightly gaped-mouthed look brought for a moment before reassuring her. "Don't worry, baby. I'm not thinking about a new round of diaper duty this soon."

The relief etched on her face that she quickly tried to cover with a poker face made him chuckle. She swatted at him lightly, but he artfully dodged it. He'd become an expert at anticipating that particular move. "I love our little girl, but I think we should just enjoy her for a while."

That was partially the truth. The other half, the one he had to share with the person that mattered most to him, was how that little girl and her grandmother did make him think of another little face. Except it wasn't so little any more.

With a deep breath, he just let it out. "I want to find my son." Randi had achieved the poker face for real now. "Not, not to cause trouble or anything," he rushed forward, stumbling slightly over his words.

The reassuring squeeze put the steadiness back in his voice. With a glance over to his daughter, he whispered, "I just want to see him, to make sure that he's okay. Happy, you know?"

Randi brushed a wisp of tiny hair from little Angie's forehead. "I know," she said. When she looked back up at him, he could see the tenderness and love shining in her eyes, brightening the darkness. "I feel the same way, about my brothers and sisters. After we…got separated when Mom died, I was supposed to forget about them, but I never did."

She tried to lower those beautiful eyes, but he would have none of that. Gently, he reached out and tilted her chin until they were eye to eye. "Maybe we should both do something about that."

And there was that smile that made the lump all but disappear. Before he could do his best to get acquainted with that smile up close and personal, their daughter reminded them of her surefire future as a belting diva.

Sharing his wife's smile, Frankie took his her hand, turned to the new Angela in his life, and serenaded her with her namesake's favorite song.

Randi joined in for a duet. Just slightly off-key, but pitch-perfect.

####

If he knew anything, he knew that sound. It had become as known to him as a favorite song. He also knew all of the backfiring cars in the city couldn't erase its meaning.

Something clicked, it always did, and he ignored the smart thing, the safe thing, the 'save you're ass' thing some might call instinct. He'd never been a conformist anyway. Instead of diving down, he drove everything else out by necessity until all that was left was the sensor honing in on the source. No time to think about the loud-quiet sounds and what they might mean, no time to think about how close they were.

No sounds at all, except for the one he knew could make the others stop. Fire with fire.

The punching bag came back into focus. As did his hand, hovering in mid-air. It wasn't quite clenched into a fist,but...something else.

He had to get the hell out of here. Grabbing his jacket, he nodded to the man pummeling the other bag in the gym – Stuart Chandler – and pushed out the door.

The cool breeze ripped the moisture off his face quickly and he stripped the jacket off too, enjoying the icy bite as he walked. It was a hobby he'd picked up during a necessary time in his life, and he'd found it reborn again since –

He never took notice of signs or landmarks. Sometimes, the maze was exactly what he needed. And somehow, he always found his destination anyway.

Like now.

Jesse stepped over the fence, and for the first time today, his hand relaxed. It brushed a few fallen leaves from the spot. Red and yellow. The moonless night should've robbed them of their color, but somehow he could still see the bright tinges.

"Hey baby girl," he whispered. "I just wanted to bring something for you." He dug a tiny hole. Reaching into his jacket, he pulled out a small teddy bear placed it in the loose dirt. Every little girl needed a teddy bear to sleep. He covered it with one of the yellow leaves. He had a feeling that color would've been her favorite.

"Say hi to your Mom for me. I know she's holding you in her arms tonight."

That thought was the only thing that could counter his other hidden wish. His first thought when he'd held his Angela's hand for the last time, when he'd kissed her closed eyelids, was how he wished that she'd still been blind. Maybe…maybe then her last image would've been something beautiful.

He used to hate himself for thinking it, until he'd talked to her about it, along with so many other things: the helplessness he felt every time he was in the same room with his daughter now; the guilt at the joy he felt when his granddaughter laughed for the first time, simultaneously making him forget for the first time; the hatred he felt for the Chandler family and their damn collection of antique guns; and the certainty, on the nights when nothing but the empty darkness kept him company that he'd taken the wrong path all those years ago. Maybe the kid with the street smarts would've been better served following his less _proper_ impulses. Maybe Mr. Law and Order should've come to an untimely early demise.

Some nights, his wife's quiet listening was enough to make the thoughts go away.

Others, the quiet -

He hadn't even realized he'd been walking again until a clump of dead leaves crunched under his feet. It signaled the fork in his road tonight.

Right turn: bar. Drinks until dizziness. Maybe putting those boxing sessions to good use in an old-fashioned barroom brawl. Followed by more cold air. A hard pillow. The safe route.

He'd never been one for the right turn, though. He followed the dark maze until it led him to an equally dark house. No lights. No noise. He knocked on the door.

Puffed, reddened eyes greeted him. Some things, the dark couldn't hide. His lips voraciously sought the trembling ones before him, sending he and Liza Colby tumbling into the dark. The door slammed, shutting away everything else.

####

She was crazy-amazing, just like he remembered. He also remembered how she could cause that confusing but exhilarating mixture in him with just one look. The clear picture of her face never lost its sharpness even after –

Somehow, it was fading. Just a vague shape, moving closer, then further away. Tantalizing him, like only she could. He tried reaching out, because God, he wanted nothing else but to just touch her. Feel her again.

Feel again.

But he couldn't, she wouldn't… And somewhere in the distance, or in his head, an animal groaned. Maybe a wounded dog, hit by a car. No, not a dog. Something more -

And he must've been experiencing something he didn't think possible, sympathy pains, because the rips and tears of pain traveled – no, darted – here, there,…everywhere.

And that pathetic, pathetic whimpering, so...

Familiar.

JR wanted to ask her, to tell her to make it stop, to tell her…

He just wanted.

And his anchor that wouldn't anchor held something that was steady. Clear.

And sharp.

The animal must've been scared too. He wasn't whimpering anymore. He was screaming.


	5. Chapter 5

My time with this show began when Erica was in her Phantom of the Opera phase. (let's see - and Ryan was on the lam, Greenlee was just beginning to stir up trouble, and we had the epic love story of Scott and the Pigeon Hollow Virgin). It was quite an introduction, to say the least. I came in a little late and right in time for some of the more controversial periods of the show, and I wish I could've seen it in its golden era. But even though I wanted to throw something at the TV more than a few times, I was moved just as many times. I really connected with this show and do still miss it, as I'm sure we all do.

It's finally a new day in PV…..

####

Cara put the sharp instrument down and turned to the head guard, who'd finally seen fit to come in for the morning. "He was supposed to be in protective custody. How did this happen?"

The man just shrugged. "Can't be everywhere at once. Things happen, especially here. Besides –"

"He's been in and out all night." Something wasn't right, but she couldn't think about that now.

She settled for addressing a rare clean spot on the wall, not being able to decide which of the surrounding sights or faces disgusted her more. "He got hysterical, and I could barely keep him still."

Cara chanced a glance at her newest patient and ground her lip until she tasted blood. "Given his circumstances, we've got no choice."

####

Sometimes, she'd felt like the stranger, like some impostor or party crasher that had snuck into the postcard family moments. Watching the two man-boys jostle each other while one talked over the other; laughing and sometimes joining in on their goofy jokes and pranks only they could really understand: those kind of things weren't supposed to be for someone like her. And she sure as hell would never be the cookie-baking talk-to with the apron.

"….and there he was, in all his blue-haired glory. If I-"

"Hey, it was just the latest shade of black."

"In Smurfland, maybe."

"You were just jealous that you couldn't pull it off."

She smiled as maybe the only other person who could appreciate the challenges in becoming an expert on Martin-speak squeezed her hand and gave her a good-natured eye-roll.

Fresh from her latest miracle – the older woman was gaining quite the reputation for having nine lives – Dixie had sat her down one day amidst a mauled turkey and a cranberry-smeared table. Amanda had gotten the real low-down on all the things she'd only heard about through town lore, vague memories, or Opal's ever-churning gossip mill. Since then – since the time she'd been more than assured that Martins did not, in fact, have a halo hiding in the sock drawer and that they did, in fact, like their 'angels' with a little dirt on the wings – Dixie and herself had settled into a nice rapport. Amanda might call it a friendship, even.

With a glance and without a word, they rose and joined their respective Martin men as the two grew serious in their talk with their dad.

Jake interlaced his wife's fingers and his voice lowered in that way it did when all the wise-cracking was gone. "The agency finally got back to us. It's gonna happen soon, Dad." His eyes lifted to hers. She smiled and nodded. "We're gonna get our little girl. With her mom's spunk and my –"

"Tragic dancing skills, poor kid."

Jake gave his brother a look that let the former know that particular observation would be paid back in kind later. "My totally awesome sense of humor, she'll be set for life." He tilted his head, giving her full view of that twinkle in his eye that nothing could quite extinguish. "All she needs is the gramps with the candy in his pocket and the motivation to spoil her rotten. Think you're up to the task?"

The kind eyes, one of the first set she'd felt acceptance from, remained closed. It still got to her, watching her father-in-law - his face frail but still so remarkably full of life - continue his 365-day and counting sleep. Unexpectedly, just a look or an offhand word brought back memories she'd rather forget. This time, the buzzword was 'gramps.'

Amanda leaned over and brushed a kiss against her husband's clean-shaven cheek. She still missed the stubble burn, but the agency rep had told them both to themselves as 'polished' as possible, so said stubble had to go. "I'll be right back," she said. " I'm going to get us some drinks from the cafeteria."

He winked at her (his lingo for OK), and she tried not to feel guilty about the fact that what she really needed was a time-out.

"Just coffee for me and the lug," he said, motioning to Tad.

"Hey, now I've been called a lot of things, some I can't mention in the company of these fine women, but I draw the line…"

Amanda left the brothers to their light bickering, grateful for Tad's distraction. She sensed her brother-in-law might've just understood.

"Would you like anything, Dixie? Or to come with?" She softly nudged the other woman, who had a far-away look in her eyes and a tense posture that Amanda had seen on a couple of other occasions. "Dixie?" she said louder, but not enough to drown out the telenovela providing proper background noise.

Dixie started, rubbing her head. The dazedness that masked over something Amanda couldn't quite identify was quickly fading.

"You okay?" Amanda asked

Dixie smiled, less broadly than before, but still with that same reassurance that must've worked wonders on her school kids. "I'm fine. I think I'll stay here. Just a coffee for me, too. Milk -"

"No sugar," Amanda finished. "Got it."

Just as easily, she knew that her husband would -

"Babe?"

Right on cue, summon her back for a quick kiss.

Just as easily, her lips curved against her husband's at the expected response from the other side of the bed. "Get a room."

Raising her head, she responded without missing a beat, "We're already in one."

"Touche."

Amanda smiled to herself as she left the hospital room. Maybe she was getting the hang of this Martin schtick, after all.

Within minutes, she was gathering her loot from the cafeteria. She stopped to let the steaming cups cool off a bit. Truthfully, she stopped to let herself cool off a bit as well.

"I'll see your four and raise you five." The tell-tale voice from behind made her jump slightly. It could only belong to one man.

"One for myself and Kendall, three for Erica."

She turned to find Zach Slater lounging and nursing his own steaming cups at the next table. "Well, I know from experience that you don't want to keep Erica Kane waiting," she observed.

He shrugged, a grin tugging at his lips. "Long line, what can I say?"

They both observed the empty line a few feet away. "How's Joe?" Zach asked.

Amanda hesitated. She'd never had anything against Zach, per se. In fact, this was probably the longest conversation they'd ever had. Still, given how things with Greenlee and his wife were…

"Not to worry, I'm not a spy for the enemy, though I might have the look for it."

Damn, she envied his ability to keep that 'blank face with a sarcastic slant to it' thing of his going at all times. It did relax her, though. "The same," she said, twirling her cup.

The very same as the day that the boy she'd played in the mud with and later slung the mud with put a misplaced but nevertheless effective bullet in his chest.

She still couldn't reconcile that boy with the man that was locked behind electric fences and steel bars now.

Then again, maybe she could, better than anyone.

"I'm sorry to hear that," Zach offered sincerely.

"JR-" It was like the unmentionable name, the cursed word fit for Harry Potter. She sensed Zach got it, though: the need to maybe not make sense of it, but just to acknowledge. "Sometimes, I'm not sure he ever really had a chance." She tapped the cup's rim. "Families can really and truly suck."

"That I do know. The ones you make, though, they're the real crapshoot. You go all in, and you either go home broke or a millionaire."

He was contemplating those swirls equally as hard as she had been.

"No guts, no glory, though. Especially for a couple of fighters like us, right?"

His fingers drummed the table, and his eyes studied her. He must've known that little trick wouldn't work on her, so he settled for just shaking his head and offering one of those rare half-smiles, half-smirks. "Just gotta hope you don't get smashed in the face by the puck in the process."

"But that's half the fun, right?" they finished together.

Amanda chuckled for the both of them. She liked the guy. He was…blunt. Her style.

The equally blunt and angry face striding swiftly their way had her rethinking that assessment.

She gathered the cups in a neat circle and casually crossed her arms, raising to meet Greenlee Smythe. with a smile.

Nah, she decided. Blunt worked just fine for her.

####

He supposed he should do something.

The two women glared. Hands clenched and eyes squinted, but hey, at least the hot cups of Joe hadn't been used as –

"Hey, hey." He artfully stepped between the adversaries. Just another day in Pine Valley.

Well, the silent stare wasn't going to have its effect here.

"The emergency room's that way, so at least you can save yourselves the gas. But I'd really rather not have to take either of you lovely ladies on a field trip, so let's just take our coffee and be on our way, huh?" He grabbed his own tray for emphasis.

"She -" Greenlee raised a finger.

"Is picking up some coffee for her family, who happen to be waiting for her right now."

The smaller woman's face immediately dipped. She was capable of the occasional 'kick yourself' moment, although it never lasted too long. Zach could see that inner debate raging inside: should she ask? Offer support? Do the truly unthinkable and say 'I'm sorry.'?

He decided to rescue her from the effort. Ever the dark knight, he was. "Maybe you should catch up with your friend, Amanda." He motioned to the entering Randi Hubbard. It was quite a party in the café today.

The other woman considered her options. Snappy comeback? Graceful exit? Fist-fight? Thankfully, he knew this personality type well enough to correctly guess that her concern for her friend would tip the scales.

With a sigh, Amanda nodded. "See you later, Zach. Say hi to Erica and Kendall for me." The small smile evaporated as she left. "Greenlee, always a pleasure."

Greenlee waited until her former employee was a safe distance away before asking, "Has Joe –"

"No," he said. "They're just visiting."

He waited expectantly, and she didn't disappoint. Ms. Smythe had a natural aversion to silent spells. "And Erica? That's why you and Kendall are here, right?"

Taking a sip of the coffee, he didn't flinch at the steam, although it could still burn. "She's waiting to resume her treatments. Kendall's with her."

"Waiting with her usual wonderful bedside manner, I'm sure."

He grinned. "Certainly."

"Maybe I should –"

"What? Triple-team the poor nurses?" he chided her. "Just give them some time. Kendall knows you support her, and Erica does, too, even though she'd never admit it."

"She may have this annoying habit of looking like a million bucks despite everything, and she might be, well…Erica….but I don't want to see anything happen to her, Zach. This town would have more than a pint-sized hole in it. And Dad –" she trailed off.

Zach admitted the one thing Erica would not. "It'd be nice if he was here."

"It'd be nice if he knew," Greenlee shot back. "I'm sorry, I know I promised not to say anything."

"Do you know when he'll be back?"

She shook her head. "He says the case in Georgia is taking up 24/7. If he knew he had a reason to come back -"

"The new wife should be good enough reason."

Greenlee shuddered. "Don't mention her."

"Duly noted." The subject change was a nice cover, but it didn't quite account for the…differences he now noticed in her. "So, what brings you to this fine establishment?"

She shook her head, as if shaking away a dream. When she looked up, the Greenlee he knew was back, but still not quite. "Just a routine check-up." She waved it off. "But…I think I'm gonna reschedule. Jake's obviously got a lot on his plate anyway. So, see you, tell Kendall I'll cover today, don't brood too much, and goodbye."

With a hug and a quick flourish, she was gone. He'd become accustomed to the whirlwinds, though. One had even seen fit to play smash-em-up with his car once.

In the wake of the latest whirlwind, he made his way to the elevator. The coffee had cooled considerably. Just the way he liked it. His lovely wife, on the other hand –

Amanda's words played in his head.

Families…

They could either be the best thing that ever happened, or the worst thing. Look at Junior. Conventional wisdom said he had all the advantages growing up: nice house, nice bank account, a stable family some of the time, and a father that despite all his faults, loved the kid. Yet…

There was the dark legacy.

Just moving the finger ever-so-slightly. A fraction, really.

No mercy, no remorse.

He knew that feeling. That ritual. And he knew equally that given the chance, he wouldn't change a step.

Junior had always been someone he could read a little too well. The story was old and well-worn. Familiar.

Reaching the wooden door, he peered through the window, and there she was: Erica Kane unplugged. The sparsest of hair, tired, reddened eyes, and, yes, skin that free from the glamorous glaze, dared to show a wrinkle.

One year ago, one flesh gunshot wound, one trip to the ER, one clean bill of health…save the advisory to come back for 'a few more tests.'

Just as he had those few days later when Erica had received the diagnosis, he gave them their moment, because he knew that when he pushed through that door, THE Erica Kane would be back in full force again…the Erica that thought she could overpower the breast cancer with one simple, "I am Erica Kane!"

He listened to their soft whispers instead, giving the quieter, no less forceful Erica her time.

"I think we're close, Mom. By this time next year –" Even in the muted softness, he could hear his wife's fierce emphasis on the 'next year.' "You'll be a—well, I'll be a mom again."

He smiled as his wife quickly corrected herself. In sickness or in health, some things never changed, including the Kane aversion to certain words.

"That's wonderful, honey."

"I was thinking, I haven't run it by Zach yet, so you're the first to know."

Another thing that didn't change: secret-keeping and eavesdropping. But the actions that had characterized too much of their relationship - on both ends – at least maybe they were for a good cause now.

"If we have a little boy, I'd like to name him Josh."

His hand went numb. Looking down, he realized the fierce grip on the doorknob had cut off circulation.

####

"Just lift, and steady. Steady."

He almost said 'like at the shooting range' but, thankfully, resisted that slip.

His hand slid up her wrist and the slight trembling abated. Or maybe he'd just absorbed it, because he was certainly feeling tremors himself now. "And curl the finger."

The pen hit the desk with a too-quiet clatter. Brot pushed away the faint sound and forced a smile. "The doc said that we could try –"

"Don't castle me!"

He didn't look away this time. They wouldn't ignore it. As the trembling moved to her face, he simply moved his hand in turn. The fingertips rested on the most amazing cheeks he'd ever laid eyes on, even to this day. They were rivaled only by the beautiful eyes that rested above them. Softly, he massaged away some of the turmoil in those troubled eyes.

"I….I meant please don't coddle me." Natalia took her own deep breath, drawing out each word. "I can do this."

His smile was genuine this time. "We can do this, and we will."

Her determination to get back on the force had not been set back by yesterday. It had only strengthened. She'd demanded that they come to the appointment with the occupational therapist early. They should be done in time to meet the speech therapist later.

Movement caught the corner of his eye, and he turned to the two familiar faces looking through the window. "I think you've got a cheering section today."

Natalia followed his trajectory, and the shudders vibrating his hand diminished just a little more. "Go stay…go say hi."

He turned back to her, and she graced him with a sight that helped him believe today was truly a new start: her smile. "The doc and I…got some work to do when get she here."

Brot listened to the lingering scars. In some ways, the two of them were a perfect match. His beared crosses were evident d in the angry marks on his face. Her face was just as stunning as ever, but the gnarled gashes were buried deeper. Hidden, but still visible, still audible. And the shared emotional scars - they would heal those together. Brot moved forward. As their lips found solace, his fingers stroked her hair and settled on the only physical trace of the bullet that had changed all their lives one year ago.

One year and one day. Today was a beginning.

Reluctantly, he pulled away. She mouthed 'Go' with that mischievous smirk that let him know the love of his life would not be taken down by a perp, a hovering family, or a steel plate in her head.

He met Jesse and Frankie down in the lobby. They had subtly made themselves scarce to give he and Natalia a private moment. Randi and Amanda were beside the drink machine, talking. The mini-family reunion was interrupted by the sharp cling of the ER entrance. It should've been a routine sound by now, but something still compelled them as, in unison, they turned toward the new arrivals.

####

An icy grip seized her wrist. When Cara tried to pull away, the vise only tightened.

JR Chandler spoke his second sentence in 24 hours. The first had only been an endless litany of one word: Babe.

"What happened?"

The calm glare –the sure mask – she was giving him had its desired effect. He released his hold on her.

She let the seething anger the mask hid sharpen her words. "We're saving your life, Mr. Chandler."

His eyes were unblinking. Unreadable. And they fastened on her own. "You should've let me die."

She couldn't argue the point. The hospital doors opened, stripping away the chill outside. Inside was still sub-zero. As she observed the five gathered individuals who would likewise not argue the point – including the man who had already put one bullet in the once-Chandler heir – she thought that her patient just might get his death wish.

Seeing some of the many faces that would want to hurt the beaten man below her (her own face surely included), she couldn't deny that last night was no accident.

And someone just might want to finish the job.


	6. Chapter 6

Happy belated Halloween, and positive thoughts to all of those impacted by the recent storm.

####

The stack of papers rested at a perfect ninety degree angle. The one frame – for the family photo, because individual pictures were cluttered and impractical, or so he'd been told – was polished to a squeaky shine. The file cabinet was neatly categorized and alphabetized. Nevertheless, it was getting another pass-through. He admired the legs currently supplying quite a nice contrast against the black metal.

"Mr. Cortlandt's meeting begins in twenty three minutes and 57.2 seconds."

His eyes guiltily lasered on the cluttered desk in front of him. Contrasts, all right. He might be able to clean up a computer in no time flat, but otherwise, might as well sign him up for an episode of _Hoarders_.

Pete adjusted his glasses and gave a small grin he hoped didn't look as twitchy as it felt. "Well, 51 seconds now, or 50…"

She frowned. "A trip to the bank, barring any car trouble or gas stops - which could alter the variables considerably - can be completed in approximately 19 minutes, making allowances for traffic patterns. Mr. Cortlandt has been gone approximately 25 minutes and -"

"14.3 seconds?" Pete guessed.

Again the frown. OK, this wasn't exactly going well. "23.7 seconds now."

He shrugged, resisting the temptation to gnaw on the tip of the pen in his hand. Corporate drones really shouldn't be picking up habits from the pet dog, after all. "You know Caleb's old junker – I mean, old 1982 Ford Fairmont Futura- he's probably just dragging his muffler along the road."

"Why would he drag a car part in the middle of a busy traffic system?"

Pete scratched his head, in the absence of anything better to do with his fumbling hands. "I'm sure he's okay. He knows this meeting's important. Heck, we know it, even though we're not exactly at the top of the ladder here."

He began to correct himself, but she enthusiastically took off with his train of thought - before he could board the train, of course.

"The corporate ladder contains the Chief Executive Officer, Mr. Cortlandt. The Chief Operating Officer, often known as the Senior Executive Vice President, is responsible for everyday operations. Then the next rung of the ladder contains the Chief Financial Officer. You and I – as accountant and computer programming analyst, would be -"

"Somewhere near the bottom of that particular ladder," he added. Not that he minded. Despite this town's reputation for trading a high-school degree for a CEO title, he'd realized a long time ago that the button-down suits and the slick talk – most especially the latter – weren't for him. And he most assuredly wasn't for them. Truthfully, he'd probably have his father's legacy torpedoed in record time: about 14.4 minutes, or seconds.

"No," she said, startling him somewhat. He had this annoying habit of forgetting when he happened to be in the middle of a conversation, even with someone as unforgettable as Lily Montgomery. "A recent report, based on raw statistical data, projects that our jobs show the most gross potential for growth in the next ten years. My own calculations have confirmed this assessment." Her eyes lit up. "I can show you the chart if you would like."

This time, his smile was easy. "I'd love to see it sometime."

When their moment was interrupted by possibly the only other person who had worse timing than Caleb, he tried to cover the visible jumping jack he'd just performed in his seat by clearing away the red apple hiding behind his clutter. Pete had a feeling that with his current office neighbor around, he was gonna have to learn to love green apples.

He stood and nodded to the interrupter. "Nina."

His sister just grabbed him by the hand and motioned to Lily. "Caleb's back, and we need all hands –" She stopped and glanced at Lily. "Sorry, we need both of you to come to the conference room right now."

Pete waved to the door. "After you." When Lily's hand almost brushed his, he stepped away. For her sake.

_Sure_.

####

With all of the seats taken, they had lined the walls like a pack of sardines. Some still tried to keep up the whole business professional presentation, standing erect with briefcases or alternative corporate weight of choice in hand. He had to shake his head as he took his place at the table's lead and crossed his dusted boots. The collection of monkey suits offered a bit of a contrast to his brand of _business casual_. He'd given up the clean-shaven, rumpled suit look oh, about nine months ago, when it no longer seemed to matter a whole hell of a lot. Taken the look out back and shot it, in fact. Being the boss offered certain perks.

He surveyed his rag-tag band of soldiers. Nina Cortlandt, COO, the prodigal daughter returned. His right-hand. Buttoned-up aloof, she possessed the requisite ice now. No more put-upon victim. Daddy's little girl indeed.

Young Peter, who'd also been driven back like the proverbial ragged moth to the white-hot flame that was Pine Valley. The events of the past year had somehow produced that side-effect. The boy was currently fending off the pecking of a mother hen on one side while trying his level-best and failing miserably not to thieve a few not-so-subtle glances at the happily oblivious young beauty to his right. Young Peter, who had the wisdom of youth to his detriment. He'd taken a hankering that no, absolutely no way was he ever gonna be daddy's little clone. Wide-rimmed glasses couldn't quite cover the eyes – and the tiny spark inside - that told Caleb a different story.

Caleb considered the two women flanking the youngest Cortlandt. The object of young Peter's fascination neatly stacked and restacked the papers in her grip, her brow knit and a flash of pink between her lips. His interactions with the accountant were still limited to a few gruff commands and a few equally frank observations from the latter. He'd never use a word like kindred spirit, nor would he ever claim to remember the day when, after putting the finishing touches on a particularly relevant project, she'd turned to him and asked the name of the canine in the picture on his desk. When he had muttered "Dog," she said matter-of-factly, "That is practical and logical."

Caleb had never apologized for the tirade he'd unleashed on the poor HR girl for hiring Lily, nor would he ever likely admit that she'd been absolutely right in her choice.

Times like these, he wished Dog wouldn't have run off. Canines were loyal, easy. He reckoned the pooch had the right idea, though. Maybe offering up a warning. He'd certainly had the urge to go back and reanoint himself as the Mountain Madman.

His focus fell on one of the few people who could make him resist that compulsion. Mother hen Opal, currently patting a piece of rogue hair on a fidgeting son's head. The only board member who shared his eccentric fashion affinities, and a most interesting, most fascinating complication. Many times, he weighed the wiseness of starting up something with the uncle's ex. Most times, he decided to hell with it, even if a certain crotchety devil minus the horns would probably poke him in the backside one day.

Old Pete or even the devil himself might not prove a match for the devil sitting comfortably to his left though, his co-sponsor in this particular endeavor. David Hayward had the stocks and the smarts, but he also had something a little more valuable: the motivation. Caleb, with a shotgun to his chest, might confess that they made a pretty damned formidable team. Hayward hadn't even had to lay the trap. The subject of their current meeting had set the snare himself and gladly handed the doctor the trigger one year ago in the form of one manila envelope.

Today, the snare finally snapped and they had their kill.

Caleb rose and addressed the small crowd. "Our emergency meeting a few nights ago proved very successful." He cleared his throat. "I'm not one for pretty speeches, so I'll get right to the point. We will need some of you to begin work immediately at our newest acquisition and insure an-"He let a rare smile takes its reign. "Easy transition. Any volunteers?"

One hand immediately raised, and he nodded to Ms. Montgomery. His gaze settled on her neighbor until a more hesitant hand wavered in the air.

Old Pete would've appreciated the roughly rhymed poetry of this moment.

His eyelids raised when another hand rose beside Peter., but he continued collecting _volunteers _unabated.

"Nina," he finished, "I would like you to oversee the transition, along with Mr. Hayward."

His eyes immediately swept from her, but not before capturing a sneak preview of the not-so-collected tirade he was sure the endure later.

He gathered his papers. The numbers were motionless, cold, and hard. He wondered, not for the first time, how many stocks and bonds could equal the price of a son, and the small smile faded.

He would soon find out.

####

"Good." Her eyes widened at the information on the screen. "Make that great. Do I want to know how you got this particular data?" She shook her head at the response. "That's what I thought. Keep me updated."

Brooke put the phone down and scanned over the numbers. That much transferred in one night? Stupidity, especially in her line of work, usually had one primary source: desperation. The question was why? Why would this ruthless, albeit respected hotshot funnel a sizable chunk of his employees' pensions into an overseas account? Better yet, why were they seemingly the only ones investigating this?

For now, she'd leave those questions to the ace reporter, who was proving to be a quick study and just a little too good at the job at hand. Truthfully, a part of her could admit – perhaps the wild-child part that rode into town all those years ago – that mentoring Erica Kane's daughter did have the benefit of driving the tiny force of nature absolutely crazy. No one had been more surprised, and skeptical, than Brooke herself when the young woman she'd always thought of as the sweet anti-Erica showed up in her office last year: the final interviewee of the day for Tempo's new internship. And no one - save maybe the girl - had been more surprised when Brooke offered her the job a few days later. That selfish part that still liked to stick it to the decades-long perennial thorn in her side was just that, though: a part. She'd like to give herself credit for evolving just a little over the years, and the respected, professional side of her could sense Bianca's natural talent. She'd done her best to nurture that talent, with mixed results.

A different part of her wanted to reach out and again find the sweet girl she once knew: the one currently blocked up behind all the pain and the ruthless killer instinct, even if it meant sacrificing the very quality that made her so effective at what she did. Brooke had become well-acquainted with that particular task over the years.

Fingering the diamond ring on her hand, she rose and lit a candle, which only provided a faint glow into the dark room. Instantly, the carpet displayed its scarlet letter: the one her fiancé refused to banish. The truth was, though, all the carpet cleaners in the world could never truly banish the large stain of this house...the house that increasingly felt like a mausoleum. The main memorial stood in the room's corner. Some might call it a mantel of family photos, but time had cruelly transformed it into something else. Scott's dimples flashed in morbid defiance of their dark surroundings, and his arm wrapped around the shoulders of his resurrected father: resurrected only to be buried again underneath a waking nightmare. And Colby., the enigmatic child who remained frozen in Brooke's mind's eye as the little blond-haired wonder: the child who used to serve as a pleasant reminder of a similar little girl with big dreams. Now, she could only invoke images and feelings Brooke would never quite forget.

She approached the mantel and lightly grasped the smaller, obstructed picture. She remembered hearing the cries of the little boy inside the frame, hearing them and being certain that she could never, ever answer them. Being certain that she would never see more than the living, breathing manifestation of her husband's betrayal - right up until the moment she reached out for the tiny bundle in the crib. Holding that bundle in her arms and being ever-so-certain that she'd never, save once, seen anyone more beautiful or innocent.

Gently, Brooke put her former stepson's picture back in its _hiding place_. Adam's secret was safe with her. Despite the refusals, despite the silences, despite the fact that he had not seen or spoken to JR for over a year, Brooke knew that - despite anything and everything - Adam still loved his son.

And, she also knew, he hated himself for it. When he received the call that JR was in the hospital, he let her witness his bluster, his "Don't call me again"s and his carelessness. When she was presumably safely out of hearing range, only then did she witness the truth manifest in a softly whispered, "Is he okay?"

She crossed the foyer and opened a drawer, carefully removing her own secret. In the days following that night, investigators had combed every inch of the house. They had discovered two guns missing from Adam's collection: two guns that were fully loaded on that night. Six rounds each, twelve bullets. Ten had taken their tragic toll in innumerable ways, and one remained in the second gun. It had never gotten the opportunity to find its intended or unintended target. Eventually, it had been determined that the missing bullet ricocheted and perhaps dug into the wall somewhere. It hadn't really mattered, they said.

Brooke gripped the stem of the champagne glass. It still shone and sparkled, and it still harbored its one addition: a perfectly shaped bullet-sized hole. Other than this small blemish, the glass was uncracked, undisturbed…

A minor miracle.

She couldn't quite put into words why she kept it – ironic for the woman who'd made a career from finding the right words – but something would not let her throw the glass away.

When the door opened and the house's sole other occupant stumbled in, she placed the glass back in its hidden corner. She almost tripped herself as she rushed across the room, stopping Adam right before he did a face-plant into the now-empty liquor stand. Her fingers tightened as the very real smell of alcohol supplanted the phantom odors.

"Adam, what -"

She was stopped by the face in the doorway – the face that, in spite of its matching features, used to be so easily distinguishable from its twin. Brooke turned her attention to the new arrival.

"Where have the two of you been?"

It should've made her happy that the brothers were interacting again. Some bonds could never be completely broken. The too-similar, too-indistinguishable matching looks, however, would not allow her that happiness.

Adam, standing as erect as he could manage and smoothing out his rumpled coat, answered for his brother. "Why, my darling, we were at Chandler Enterprises, the newest subshi… subsidy…oh, excuse me," he slurred. "The newest subsidiary of Cortlandt Electronics."

She might've been shocked, angry even. But after everything that had happened, the news of this particular feat of corporate raiding felt…inevitable.

Although Adam had turned over the business reins so that his brother could provide a "better" legacy, that passion and fire for his legacy still remained. Try as he might, Adam would never be able to douse it completely.

That fire rekindled itself as his eyes settled first on her, and then on his brother. "You do, of course, realize what this means?"

The expected resistance did not come. Stuart just nodded.

Brooke's eyes took their own inventory, an inventory that included a dimmed diamond ring, a locked drawer, and a sealed envelope from the family court that likely announced the declaration of yet another war.

Weddings, plans, and all the niceties that went with them were on indefinite hold.

As her gaze returned to her fiancé, Brooke considered the casualties of war.


	7. Chapter 7

Listening to _Broken_ by Lifehouse right now. I think it's kind of fitting for the PVverse at the moment.

In the last chapter and this chapter, we've moved forward a bit, so it's somewhere in October, 2012. Slowly catching up...

####

She tilted her head back and let the grease – and the day – wash down the drain. The warm, misty blanket wrapped around her and slightly squeezed. Just the way she needed it. Her eyes opened to a white fog – a fog that melted defined lines and curves and allowed her to get lost for a few minutes. She reached for the yellow blur and her fingers closed around a too-smooth, too-fragrant bar. Smiling at the memory of the lumpy, lye-based concoction they'd made when the money would run low and the fancy soap would have to wait, she could almost feel the tiny pebbles underneath her fingertips. And the sweet, high-pitched voice with the drawl echoed through the mist: "_We made it, Mama! We made it!_"

"We sure did, babydoll."

Scrubbing with more force and speed, she raced to outpace the inevitable ghosts in the mist that were closing in on her.

She could never run fast enough, though. And in the end, she could never protect the little girl with the soap-stained hands.

That's why it was supposed to be different for her other little girl. Birthday cakes with actual icing and fancy letters. Nice clothes and a respectable name. And double the love.

A love that would nurture a little red-head who would for one hour of one precious day offer to play "grass castles" in a park. She would play with the little blond girl in the rumpled, dirty clothes like she was a…sister.

Her hand frozen in md-scrub, Krystal slid down the damp wall. The sharpening stream pounded, but the relentless streams of water could never cut like the softer, cooler stream trailing down her cheeks.

It was supposed to be…

** (_Late August, 2011_)

"Different."

Her seething anger at her ex-son-in-law let up, or was rather temporally displaced by her concern for the young woman studying the floor.

She approached her daughter and rubbed her arms until they relaxed their self-embrace. "I've been so focused on wanting to string that boy up by his –"

She chuckled at the small grin that threat coaxed. "By his hair that I haven't even asked about you."

Krystal stroked the red strands. A small, but hard-edged voice inside still whispered that she didn't deserve the honor. She hog-tied that intruder for now. "Are you afraid of feeling ashamed if JR puts that tape up somewhere? Are you afraid of what people will think? Say?"

Marissa's eyes rose, full of conviction. "No. I meant it, I am different now, in so many ways. I'm not that scared, insecure girl playing dress-up because she's afraid of losing again. And I'm…" She trailed off.

"If you don't want to talk about it, that's fine. But…" She searched for the right words, ones that wouldn't mark her as too Erica Kane-intrusive. "I know that...what happened must've been different for you, so if you have any thoughts or feelings swirling around up there…" She gently tapped Marissa's temple, bringing forth another priceless grin. "I'm here."

They were two simple words, but she'd waited so long to utter to the girl in front of her now.

Krystal watched her daughter chew her lip, a tiny tell that she was deep in thought. She knew the habit by heart now, and that realization made her smile.

"It would be a little awkward talking about this with Scott, and I can't really talk about it with my best friend, for obvious reasons." Finally, Marissa rushed forward in that stumbling way Krystal had also come to recognize. It was amazing and amusing that someone so eloquent in the courtroom could be reduced to a gushing teenager at the drop of a hat.

"It was different, yes in the physical, I mean, obviously…"

Her slight blush and tucking of one strand of hair behind her ear – Krystal didn't have to wonder where she'd picked up that habit – made it hard for Krystal to hold in the chuckle that was battering her throat. She bit the inside of her cheek and just nodded.

"I'm using that word a lot. Different. But it fits." She paused, finally slowing down as tenderness smoothed out the peaks and vallleys of her words. "It felt different. I've never responded like that to anyone before." The red tint of her cheeks now coordinated with her hair, but the color had a glow. "I've never connected with anyone like that before, you know?"

Krystal did know, all too well. She had felt it once, too.

"For the first time since they died, everything felt real and…right."

She must have assumed the confession affected Krystal, because she started to back away slightly, to back off. And it had affected her, but not in the way Marissa thought. "I'm so very happy for you, always remember that," Krystal whispered.

Marissa studied her and nodded, the small dimples dancing around her lips not fading. "I don't know what label to put on it and I really don't care. I just know its her and that's all that is ever gonna matter. That night, that realization…it was private, special. And that's what I'm sad and angry about. That he was there. His eyes, his hate. That he takes it and tries to make something dirty and vulgar out of one of the most amazing moments of my life."

"He won't. He can't." It was her turn to speak with the lawyer's conviction.

"A part of me wants to ask him if he picked up any pointers," her daughter offered with that slight mischievous tone she'd also grown to love.

This time, Krystal didn't need to reign in the chuckle.

But Marissa had resumed her evaluation of that coffee stain on the floor. "A part of me also wonders if….if I deserve what I have, or if I'm just kidding myself. Sometimes, with AJ, with David and...you, with JR, even with Bianca, I've felt like a thief."

Krystal vehemently shook her head, and realizing that her daughter couldn't appreciate the gesture, gently but forcefully raised her chin.

"I see everyday, in your eyes, how much you loved her," Marissa said. "I'm sorry that she's gone, but I can't be that liquid cement I suspect I was for JR. There will never be enough to fill the hole she left. I know that."

"Listen to me good." She placed her hands securely on her daughter's shoulders. "We love that fiery hair that matches your personality when somebody gets you going and that matches your capacity to love. We love your stuttering when the words can't match the feelings. We love the way your nose twitches when you laugh." She tweaked the offending body part, drawing the laugh and the wonderful by-product. Her hand moved to cup a cheek. "We love you."

She smiled when Marissa hugged her. And when she whispered , "I love you too, Mom" as if it were the most natural thing in the world, Krystal swiped away the tears that had just as naturally sprung to her eyes before reluctantly releasing the embrace.

She'd always been Mama, never Mom. But, looking at her daughter right now, who was smiling as if nothing in the world had changed, she decided that she liked the title very much.

She also realized that to truly earn her new distinction, then Marissa had to really know her mother. Every last ugly detail, even if it meant she would just be Krystal again, and even if it would forever change the way her daughter felt about her.

Krystal preserved the happy, vibrant face in front of her in her memory, just in case.

"I want to talk to you about something before you find out some other way." Her own gaze wanted to find that spot on the floor that had so fascinated Marissa earlier, but with all her willpower, she kept her focus on her daughter. "I am assuming JR or Bianca have never told you about AJ and Miranda."

Marissa's eyes brightened at the mention of the "birthday twins." Likely noticing Krystal's non-matching expression, she slowly shook her head.

With the deepest breath she could muster, Krystal began the story.

** (_Present_)

A loud crash thrust her back into the now-freezing water. The shower must've been clear, but her vision was not. She only realized when she reached out to shut off the faucet that she was shivering head to toe. Another thump followed by a muffled cry sent her slip-sliding from the tub. She stopped for only the barest instant to hastily wrap the robe around her as she bolted towards the source of the commotion.

She halted mid-stride at the bedroom door, heart hammering her throat. Jenny lay on the floor. Above her stood AJ, and beside them both rest the cracked remains of an overturned table. Krystal hit the carpet, barely registering the harsh burn on her own knees as she grabbed her daughter's knee. "You okay,sugardoll?" Her

Her girl was trying her best to hold in the sniffles as she rubbed the rapidly darkening bruise. What she could not hide was the look she was giving her playmate.

Turning to AJ, Krystal asked, "What happened?"

Her grandson's expression had not changed, and it didn't change now. Nor did he answer.

"It's okay," Jenny said, the cracks in her words seeping through. "I'm okay. I just banged my knee."

Checking her daughter's knee for herself and helping her onto the bed, Krystal glanced at the splintered table. It most certainly was not okay. She patted her daughter's good knee. "I'm gonna go get some bandages and medicine and we'll fix you up good as new, okay?"

Jenny nodded quietly, and quiet was not a word she could ever normally assign to her daughter.

"AJ, why don't you come help me?"

She had to tug at the boy's hand twice before he finally followed her out of the room. Once they'd moved a safe distance away, Krystal stopped and hunched on her knees, bringing her eye-to-eye with her grandson. "Can you tell me what happened in there?"

He shrugged. "She tripped over the table. I didn't do anything."

"I didn't say you –"

"Why didn't you let me go?"

Krystal was taken aback by the question, as well as the face in front of her that was suddenly anything but blank.

"Go where, sweetheart?" She immediately regretted asking a question she already knew the answer to.

"To the memorial." He turned away, but the anger in his face crept into his every word. "You just want me to forget, about both of them!"

"AJ., that's not –" Before she could grasp his hand again, he had run away. This time, the bang she heard was that of a slamming bedroom door.

Her grandson had become a pro at running away, and was quickly gaining proficiency in other things she didn't want to think about right now.

"Girls, your little boy really needs you right now…and so do I."

She couldn't bear to wait for the reply that wouldn't come. Instead, she went in search of the first-aid kit downstairs. It was tucked away in a drawer, underneath the day's mail. She removed the envelope on top. Her finger traced the contours of the family court's official seal.

An image of a previous visit to family court – the image of her crawling on the floor, chasing her last pill – flashed and faded quickly. She looked at the closed door upstairs and her fingers dug into the paper, tearing. That woman was gone. If Adam Chandler wanted a fight, then K Carey. sure as hell remembered how to throw a roundhouse. More than a few prior gentlemen acquaintances, including her ex-husband himself, could back up that fact.

####

"Yes, munchkin, I'll leave some candy corn out for the Great Pumpkin. Extra batches, and I'll even throw in some of the caramel apple ones if you promise me something. Actually, two things. First, when you go to the party, you've gotta eat one of the biggest candy apples you can find for me. And, give Mimo an extra-big hug and kiss you….I know, I know, yuck, but do it for me okay?..No, I haven't talked to Santa yet. I think the Great Pumpkin might get a little mad if Santa starts visiting now….I miss the both of you so much, and I've got a calendar right here marking the days until I can give you all those hugs and kisses myself….I love you too, no, more than all the marshmallows in the world."

At the buzz of the dial tone, she pinched the area between her eyebrows. The dull ache remained. She resisted every impulse to pick the phone back up and book the next fight to Paris. But she knew the girls needed this time…to be away. If one not-bad thing had happened within the last year, it had been the restoration of Gabby and Miranda's relationship with Reese. Despite their differences, she knew that the girls needed the woman who'd been such a big part of their lives. Everyone needed their mom, after all.

The soft but insistent rapping at the door jerked her from that thought. She hesitated, because only one person ever refused to use the very-visible doorbell. The drumming on the wood didn't get louder, but it didn't end either. They were in a contest and she knew, despite her newfound resolve in other areas, that this was one game she would never win.

Grabbing each wheel, she pushed to the door in a few seconds, If nothing else, her arm strength had certainly increased. Bianca opened the door and pushed back, giving her mother an opening.

And Erica Kane always knew how to make an entrance. Bianca could feel her eyes widening, in spite of her best efforts to remain impassive. Her mother's new look had gotten quite the bit of attention around town and in the papers, but she had not seen it in person yet. She could count on one hand the amount of times she'd seen Erica Kane sans makeup and minus the latest hairstyle. Truthfully, she was okay with that, because it always reminded her that her superwoman mother did, in fact, get older and that she was, in fact, just another person who lived and who would -

She couldn't do this. "Mom, I was just going out, I have to meet a source."

Her mother, when she wasn't a willing participant in the cover-up, could always spot a lie. "Bianca, you haven't returned any of my phone calls."

"I've been busy."

"I left messages, many of them."

"My phone's been acting up. I'll have to get another."

"And I've been here several times, but you always seem to be out."

"I have to work."

"Not every waking moment, Bianca. That woman should not –"

"What woman, Mom? Would that be my boss?"

"Brooke should know that you need –"

"First, I don't 'need' anything, nor do I need to be handled. As for Brooke, she gets that, and at least she's been-"

She wouldn't finish it, because the last thing she or her mother needed right now was to do this.

"Is that why you're avoiding me? Honey, I want to know – believe it or not – how things are going at work. I want to know the latest little thing Gabby and Miranda have said that's made you smile. I just want to see your smile. I want to know you're okay, and I cannot do that if you keep avoiding me."

"I'm not avoiding you, I told you -"

"And I know what your sister has told me."

"Kendall should stay out of it."

"You know that's not our way."

"Yes, the almighty Kane Women way."

"I talked to your grandmother when I arrived back in town."

Bianca swallowed something that refused to lessen its hold on her throat. She stopped herself from asking if the flowers were still there.

"We had a wonderful talk, although I did most of the talking, like usual." Her mother smiled wistfully. "And I told her something. I promised her something"

The swift motion, and the feeling of the warm palms on her cold cheeks…those were the only reasons she couldn't stop shaking, or that that damn traitorous lower lip wouldn't stop trembling.

"I'm not giving up, and I'll never stop fighting, for me, for Kendall." Those hands wouldn't let her face move, wouldn't let her eyes get away, wouldn't… "For you. I'm never leaving. Never," the voice behind those hands whispered fiercely

** (_Early October, 2011_)

"We can leave," the voice behind her whispered. "I can get a few things that the girls need later."

"No," she said, staring at the oak door she had danced in front of just a few weeks ago: a lifetime. "I need to get our things since we don't know how long we'll be staying with you. It won't take long," she added hollowly.

"OK," Kendall said, although her voice conveyed anything but. "I'll…I'll take upstairs."

With an empty grin, Bianca patted her new wheels. "I think that's probably a good idea."

She jostled the key again and again, unleashing a string of words she hadn't used in a very long time. When Kendall gently steadied her hand, the key slid in and the door opened. A piece of paper fell to the floor. With a puzzled look that likely complemented her own, Kendall picked it up. The furrow in her brow only deepened. "Who the hell's Cyri?" she asked in her usual poetic manner.

A sharp intake of breath accompanied the clench in her chest. "What does it say?"

Kendall's brows raised before she continued reading. "_Cyri, two can play this game. The Dream-Catcher_."

"Can I…" She cleared her throat. "Can I see it, please?"

When Kendall handed her the paper, she recognized the compact letters that still managed their sweeping loops. The barest trace of a one-of-a-kind perfume filled her nose and burrowed into her lungs.

"Cyrano," she said, almost inaudible. "It stands for Cyrano."

Her sister, obviously no expert at literary classics, only nodded blankly.

"That's what she called me sometimes. It was an inside thing."

But Kendall's attention had been diverted by the small object on the coffee table. This time, Bianca didn't need to see the note attached to the blue painted pony.

"_He gallops among the clouds_," she recited along with her sister.

Kendall cupped the figurine in her hand. "It -"

"has white wisps, like cirrus clouds," Bianca confirmed. Just like she'd described to Marissa on that day they'd talked about their ideal childhood Christmas presents.

"There's more on the back," Kendall said. "_He doesn't move and he's tiny too, but I hear he can make dreams come true_."

She smiled as Kendall finished: "_Forgive me for the bad poetry_."

"There's…there's another attached to the computer."

Bianca followed her sister's finger, which was pointing to an identical square of paper, colored lavender. Her favorite, of course. She wheeled herself over to the desk, unmindful of the small ache in her arms. This time, she picked up the note.

"_Follow your dreams_." Attached was a newspaper clipping: a classified ad. Unfolding it slightly, she read the words "Tempo" and "intern" before abruptly folding it again.

Without hesitation, she moved herself into the library, ignoring Kendall's call. The next slip of paper lay on top of a thick book.

"_I figure this'll give us a good start_."

She rolled the formidable and tightly-wound ball around in her hand. She'd bet it even bounced, despite its rather unconventional composition.

"Now what in the –"

"Rubber band ball," Bianca said, cutting off Kendall's next blunt question. She patted the book. "I told her I'd always wanted to be in the Guinness Book of World Records, and she decided we'd make the world's largest rubber band ball. I'd have to give her half the credit, though." The chuckle died on her lips.

Another book lay out of place. The travel guide's bookmark did not have the fancy pictures or the wise sayings. It was just a simple lavender rectangle, save the messy-neat handwriting.

"_Spring trip_," that handwriting announced. Each glossy picture on the marked page highlighted a different feature of the destination. The pool, the spa, the room….she knew every detail by heart. "_This time, we'll make it right_." She turned the pages too quickly, and the paper tore in her grip.

The picture below the next slip brought both another smile and another clench.

"Is that a..."

"Goat," she confirmed. "When I was a kid, I never wanted to go to the zoo. This was my perfect weekend trip: goats on the roof. I said I'd like to take Miranda and Gabby one day." A road map was neatly tucked around the paper. The offbeat attraction comprised one major star. The other star was marked with an address.

Closing her eyes for an instant, Bianca smoothed out the bookmark.

"_Summer road trip, what do you say_?" In smaller letters: "_She can't wait to see you_."

"Who?" Kendall asked softly.

"My…Molly, my sister. We haven't talked in so long. I thought she..."

Bianca trailed off. Now she knew the source of the mystery long-distance call on their first shared phone bill.

She closed the book and turned to Kendall. "Can you help me get to the kitchen, please?"

"Binks, you don't have to—"

"Yes, I do, Kendall Please." The last word barely found form, but it must have worked.

After studying her for a moment, Kendall grasped the chair's handles. "Any time you want to leave, just say the word. Zach and I can pick your things up later."

"Thank you." She wished those words could cover it, but they never seemed adequate enough when it came to her sister.

Her instinct was confirmed. In place of the kitchen table lay a picnic blanket and a basket she knew would contain all of her favorites. Just as she knew the carefully wrapped aluminum harbored the biggest piece of chocolate cake Pine Valley could muster. A solar light sat in place of the candle, because she always preferred sunlit picnics to candlelit dinners…a fact she'd only told one person in her life.

"How…how did she arrange all of this?" Kendall asked.

Searching her memory, she could only think of one solution. "When we got the text from – before we left that night, she told me to drop the kids off at the sitter and she'd meet me there… that she had some errands."

"Errands, and then some. God, this is so -" Kendall didn't finish the thought, but she didn't need to. The ache – the only pain, the only thing – she felt, would forever remind her of the most romantic date that never was and never would be. But didn't romance and tragedy always fit together just a little too well?

Atop the CD of her admittedly oddball and eclectic playlist was a special request: "_Join me for a night under the stars_?"

Miranda's glow-in-the-dark constellation book accompanied the request. It was open to Coma Berenices, where another note and a lock of unmistakable red hair was attached: "_I will always be your safe harbor_."

Bianca slipped both small objects into her chest pocket. She felt them with each heartbeat.

"I would like to go outside."

This time, Kendall didn't protest. She simply took them towards the cool breeze and the welcoming dark. Only the small white tent punctuated the black around them….small, but large enough for two. Blasphemy for Erica Kane's daughter, but she'd always wanted to go camping, and her dream-catcher had been determined to make it so.

Just inside the opening lay her final gift. Its soft illumination bathed one final message in a dim glow: "_And you'll always be my light, my love_."

Bianca gazed up at an endless golden shimmer. Each tiny point of light proved sharper than the last, and she wondered how many cuts it would take before one bled out.

She had all night to find the answer.

** (_Present)_

She pushed Erica's hands away. "Don't make promises you can't keep." She wheeled herself to the the door, reopening it. "Please, I really need to go. We can catch up some other time."

Erica rose. "Yes, we will. I'm not giving up."

"Mom, wait."

When Erica turned with hope in her eyes, Bianca could barely get the words out. "When is…when is your procedure scheduled for?"

Erica smiled. "Next week, and I'll be there with my boxing gloves on, color-coordinated, of course."

When Bianca nodded, Erica offered one parting thought: "Don't give up, honey. Don't ever give up."

** (_Late August, 2011_)

Marissa had been pacing the floor ever since she returned from Krystal's. She only stopped when Bianca lightly grabbed her shoulders.

"How can you forgive her? How can you always be that person?" she asked.

Smiling, Bianca turned her around. She cupped a warm cheek and wiped away the drop of water hanging precariously from one beautiful eyelash. "I've got to keep believing. In people, in life. In forgiveness. How can I not? My belief led me to you."

** (_Present_)

_How can you always be that person?..._

Bianca took out the phone again. She sent a quick text, then dialed the number she would soon need to feed to the paper shredder.

"You'll get the rest of your money soon. Your services are no longer needed, for the time being. I don't want him…gone, I just didn't want him to ever forget his anniversary."

####

His finger stiffened, and the last beautiful note went crashing into the wall. But he was getting closer. He'd almost made it through the whole song this time. He unbuttoned the cuff of his shirt and rolled up the sleeve. A couple of quick taps, and he stuck the needle in. His teeth bit into the syringe's cover and a hiss whooshed past the plastic. He always left this part to the nurses, and he could confirm the saying was true: doctors were very much their own worst patients.

But the potential, always the lovely potential, was so worth the small sacrifice. The opportunity to finally cash in on that envelope Adam had given him on that night last year had provided a most wonderful distraction. Buying up the necessary majority stocks with Chandler's own money had been beautifully poetic…fit for a Greek play. And though he could never admit it – he had a sterling reputation to protect, after all – volunteering his services at the Miranda Center did fulfill his healer drive in part, and it did ease his temporary time away from the hospital.

Temporary being the key word. As soon as he addressed this little problem with his arm.

Junior couldn't hit his own nose with his finger, so it was just a quirk of fate that the bullet David was sure was meant for him actually found its target. When the bullets started bearing down, he had gone against every natural, God-given impulse and self-appointed principle to step in front of Cara and take the hit.

The reluctant hero role did not suit him. It never would.

He pushed the button that would quiet the flashing icon on his phone and smiled at the message.

"_How'd it go? King of the jungle now_?"—B."

He smiled and sent his reply: "Fitting the crown now. He's finally going to pay." It had been a year since he'd restored his relationship with the message's sender, since he'd made things right, in his own David Hayward-special way.

** _(Early October, 2011)_

He opened the door and his lower reflexes, at least, were still good. He had managed to jump back before he lost a toe to the wheels barreling across his floor.

She came to an abrupt stop and wheeled around with swift ease. Her eyes did not convey the same ease. He hadn't seen her since that night. And seeing her like this was harder than he could imagine, but he was never one to look away.

Sighing, David closed the door. "Can I?—"

"Where is she?"

"Who?"

She wheeled closer to him, and he conceded another step. She'd always been one of the only people who held the honor of making him back up.

"We've come too far for this. Please, don't give me the same spiel you like to give everybody else." He could hear the break, the crack, and her absolute determination to seal it. "I know you have her, David. Just tell me where she is, please."

Something shifted inside of him when he realized the reason for her sudden arrival. He'd been in this position before, asked these very same questions. Some of those times, he'd even relished the power….the knowing what no one else knew.

All of his successes, all of his so-called miracles, however, were forever framed by the others. For every success, there were dozens of failures. And many of those failures were too damn personal.

He could save the world, but he could not save the ones who mattered most. Maybe it was his karmic punishment, if he believed in such things. Frankenstein always had to taste his retribution, after all.

David reclaimed his step, and then another, until he stood before her. Neither one of them would back away now, because there was no turning back.

"Marissa's gone, Bianca. I wish to - I'd give anything if that weren't true. I'd give anything to bend down right now…." He bent until they were face-to-face. "And tell you I'd spirited her away, that she was in a top-secret hospital room getting better and stronger as we speak. But I can't." He pulled his hand down his face, struggling to keep those inefficient, useless cracks out of his own voice. "Sometimes, the injuries are too much. It was instant."

Conceding chance. Fate. Those words had never been part of his vocabulary, but for once in his life, he was so…tired.

She closed her eyes, and he could see the subtle vibrations moving up and down her throat as she moved closer and lowered her voice. "Tell me," she insisted fiercely.

"Bianca, I am telling –"

The hand he had reached out was slapped away with equal ferocity.

"I don't believe you." She emphasized each word, and his non-response must have said everything. "Damn you, you sonofabitch, haven't you taken enough from me?" All traces of calm collect were gone, and he flinched at the words more than the hands swatting against his chest. "Tell me!"

He wrapped his arms around her and took the trembles and the protests as his own. "She's gone," he whispered brokenly into her ear. "I'm so sorry, God, I'm so sorry."

Together, they surrendered to the grief they couldn't let the rest of the world see.

When he brought her the steaming cup later, he couldn't say how much time had passed. For someone whose whole profesional life was calculated in precise minutes and seconds, somehow, time had slipped away. She nodded a silent 'thank you' and drank.

He looked at his bandaged arm and the words came, unrehearsed: another first for him. "I never really apologized for what I did to you…with Miranda. I want to do that now, not because you're here and it's convenient or because I'm feeling guilty about Marissa, but because…it's probably the only thing in my life I will ever regret."

His eyes rose to her then, and she was studying him, maybe sizing him up. Truthfully, he was not used to the poker face from her. "You were helping your family," she said in an even voice that likewise betrayed nothing.

He shook his head. "When Marissa told me about you and her, it felt right somehow. Before I even knew I had a family, you were my family in all of the ways that mattered. You were my—" He squeezed the bandage, forcing the pain, and forcing himself to stop. Rather, he offered the ultimate in empty responses. "Let me know if I can do anything to help you."

The quick response did not startle him so much as it surprised him.

"You can, by teaching me." She paused until he looked up, until she knew she had his full attention. "Teach me to be like you."

This did bring forth the evening's first laugh. "Oh, I think you'd better leave being me to me. I'm so very good at it, after all." The slight tease softened his words. "And you're so very good at being good. You're you."

"Look at where it's gotten me." She slammed her armrests, but he didn't flinch. "They say insanity's doing the same thing over and over and expecting a different result. Well, I finally got the memo. I'm tired of being…"

_Used by people like me_, he quietly supplied.

"A victim," she finished.

David picked up his own unused cup, a pained smile playing at the tips of his mouth. "Marissa told me the same thing once, trying to offset Junior's latest screwup. 'I wanna be like you.' Normally, my ego couldn't resist such words, especially coming from the daughter who couldn't bear to speak to me on most days. But I knew, even as I said yes, I knew that the little experiment wouldn't go far. She wasn't me, and thank God for that." He forced down the stale tea.

"And look where it got her."

He put the cup down, a little less elegantly than normal. Then again, he wasn't exactly accustomed to having guests for tea time. "Being me is not all it's cracked up to be, Bianca."

"I've never really thought about it before, but now I've got nothing but time to think." She was studying him again, and again giving nothing away. "I've always had this…draw to your family: Leo; Babe.; Frankie.; Maggie.; Marissa….You."

His eyebrows rose in acknowledgment. "Well, at least you steered clear of mommy dearest," he cracked.

"You're not perfect. You mess up, a lot, and then you move on. Move forward. And you…you go after what you want, and you make no apologies for it. You never do anything halfway, whether it's medicine, revenge, hate, hurt…love. You're in it full-force. I've always respected you for that, and at one time I even …"

He understood, better than anyone, why she couldn't say it. He didn't deserve it, but the selfish – admittedly majority – part of him savored knowing she'd once held the same affection for him as he still did for her.

"If you really want this –"

"Look in my eyes and you'll have your answer."

He did, and he saw the glimmer of the girl he had loved…that he still loved as a daughter. Right now, though, she was overshadowed, overpowered by more familiar acquaintances: anger, pain, and absolute resolve.

David reached out his good hand again, and this time, she didn't strike it away. They sealed their new partnership with the proper handshake.

He leaned back on the sofa. "So, what's our first order of business?"

"Full disclosure," she said simply. "Project Orpheus would be a good start."

"It's done," he offered, as honestly as David Hayward could. He no longer actively sought out new 'clientele.' "I finally got the message too, and believe it or not, I came to the conclusion that I am not, in fact, God. Don't get me wrong, the technology still has enormous potential. In fact, I would recommend that you -"

Her hands brushed over her motionless legs. "I can't think about that right now. Please, continue."

"There's nothing to continue. If I couldn't help my daughters –"

"Then you help no one."

Her observation brought a grin. "A part of it was admittedly always about the power, and I would be lying if I said I didn't have visions of Nobel Prizes dancing in my head. But I cared, too. You may not believe that—"

"I do."

He smiled again.

"So, are you saying there are no more patients?" she asked.

"I have patients around the country, and I won't abandon them. Some are even close: Philly, Llanview, even a few in New York, especially in a little town called Port Charles…."

"And Pine Valley?"

He contemplated evaluating his bandage again versus looking her in the eye. He opted for the more direct approach. "There is no one left in Pine Valley"

** (Present)

Technically, he hadn't lied to her. There was no one physically in Pine Valley. He hated using his own unique brand of situational ethics on her, but he was honoring a promise.

Most of the injuries that night _were_ irreversible, save one.

He had promised his one save from September 23, 2011 that, until such time as deemed necessary, the world would consider them dead.

And it did.

As he mused over his latest tango with the truth, the doorbell made its rare presence known. This time, he didn't open the door to an angry young woman in a wheelchair.

He opened the door to another of his promises.

"What the hell are you doing here?" He hurried the visitor inside.

"Nice greeting. I missed you, too."

David shook his head and gave the man a bear hug before pulling back. "Now, what the hell are you doing here?"

"We've got a problem, bro," Leo said, running a hand through his sandy hair. "A big problem."


	8. Chapter 8

I wanted to acknowledge Veterans Day this past week. Everyone who has served their country is owed a big debt of thanks.

And speaking of thanks, a continued thank you to the readers and reviewers - and happy Thanksgiving to those in the States.

Storywise, time's moved forward about a week from the last update, which will leave certain questions unanswered for now, but all in due time…

####

Dark, deceptively empty. You'd be lucky if you could count the fingers in front of your face. Abandoned warehouses: the shared location of choice for horror movie government experiments gone wrong and the underbelly of society.

He'd give anything to be navigating through a warehouse right now rather than pointing his gun at a brightly lit, large room with the requisite neatly stacked set of tools. Experience had taught him that the greatest horrors strolled along merrily whistling in the glint of daylight.

Wiping the sting from his eye with a damp finger only amplified the burn, but at least he had dry skin on the trigger now.

Sliding against the garage's inner door sent a cold shock through his heated skin. Brot cleared his throat for the required warning, the pronouncement that was as good as _I'm here, come and get me!_

"Police! I have a warrant!"

The soft whoosh of a breeze greeted his call. He quickly assessed the possibilities, his arm relaxing slightly but the feather-light touch against the trigger never easing. They could've gotten word, abandoned ship. But the warrant had gone down quickly. Hell, just an hour ago he'd been chowing down a croissant at the coffee shop, planning what to do with his fiancée on his day off. He knew the protocol, but he couldn't wait for backup. He had a feeling time was too short for that.

This was prime science lab time. And the unmistakable stench of a fresh batch told him all he needed to know. They were close.

Waiting.

Brot was never a patient man. Keeping his back firmly against the wall, he pushed slowly sideways, guiding himself as best as he could around the hammers and nails: a veritable minefield of natural traps. Sour liquid – the only physical sign of the sick roil in his guts – teased at his lips again and sweat clouded his vision. He might as well have been in a warehouse, blindfolded, for all that he could see now. Something snatched at his foot and he kicked hard.

A million tiny sonic booms echoed off the walls, and his mind struggled to hold on to the fact that there were walls. He struggled to remember that the thick gauze covering his body was from adrenaline, not oppressive, stifling humidity.

Bucket. Nails. Maybe screws.

The frenzied litany brought him back, because he couldn't go back there. Not now.

"You're in a garage," he muttered, and somehow the thought didn't slow his pounding heart.

The smell, though, was unmistakable. It focused him. And it was getting stronger by the second. When he saw the first bottle filled to the brim with cloudy liquid, the coil in his stomach wrenched painfully. He battled his earlier breakfast, which was now determined to make a grand reentrance into the world.

At the faint sound of footsteps, he swung his gun around. Its barrel landed with precision on a new arrival.

Brot lowered the gun and took a step forward. "Kid, what are you doing here?" he asked the small boy. "We've got to –"

The images of other small shadows seared his mind's eye. Small shadows with angelic faces and dark black backpacks.

Weapons.

He dove behind the table as the first bullet tore a chunk from the wooden leg where his own leg now rested. The second bullet confirmed the origins of that cloudy liquid as the shattered bottle and its contents rained on him with a miniature hailstorm of glass shards.

He'd finally found his meth lab, up close and personal.

####

"Thank you for staying with him this morning. As soon as I've finished with my patient, I'll be home. If you need anything, you can always reach me on my cell. Thanks again. Bye."

Cara's smile disappeared as she turned back to said patient. She continued her clinical assessment without missing a beat.

"…and the medication should help with your head pain. Most of the facial cuts have healed, so I don't foresee any danger of infection." She scribbled furiously on the pad, even as her words remained collected. Professional. "Before your…transfer, I have requested that you take part in a group physical therapy session. You've fallen behind since your stay here, and it should prove helpful toward your long-term –"

"Is everything okay…with him?"

Her hand stiffened at the question. "He's fine," she answered curtly.

"Keeping Hayward from him –"

"David is not a part of his son's life by his own choice." For the first time, she looked up at her patient, and, to her surprise, she didn't see the dead-eyed condescension she expected. "He's welcome to see our child any time. He did, after all, save our lives."

And every word was true. On some level, she could understand David's reasons. She always could, even though he'd never expressed them directly. The bittersweet storm in his eyes was evident the first and last time he'd held their little boy. She knew then that David's son wouldn't see his father again for a long time. For her son's sake, she hoped that _a long time _did not mean forever. She had firsthand experience with that pain. The lingering, quiet kiss David had pressed to his first son's forehead had promised _Not again_. He would save his son's life by taking himself out of it and maybe, just maybe, he would not pay the price of another dead child.

"I…I get it, okay?"

The strain in those words shook her from her thoughts. JR's voice still had that hint of hoarseness. It might have been attributed to the tube they'd just removed from his throat. She would attribute it to a lack of use. In the past few weeks, likely longer, the only visitors her patient had were herself and the guard perennially stationed outside the door. Given the circumstances, a lack of visitors was probably for the best. Judging by the looks her patient's hospital door had received from Jake and Frankie as they passed by, she was certain that the hospital staff was better off remaining inhospitable.

"Maybe at least now we can stop being all calm, cool, professional doctor/patient, when we both know we're anything but," JR said.

Perhaps in some meaningless act of defiance, she picked her pen back up and tapped it on the clipboard. "You have no right to run down David, especially considering your own circumstances."

He struggled to lift his head, and she struggled not to play nursemaid and adjust his pillow. "I was going to say that keeping Hayward from his son won't solve anything. Using a kid like that, it doesn't solve anything. Believe me, I know."

"Is it time for another round of JR's 'blame the victim' now?"

"No," he said simply, with both conviction and resignation.

The sterile white of the room was too bright, too blank, maybe too reflective. She wondered sometimes if it was meant to calm, to ease, or simply meant to prolong the stay. Against her impulse, she stood her ground and faced it.

"You tried to kill him, so you expect me to believe you're looking out for his welfare now?"

"No, I do and will always hate his guts. He…kept her away."

"Who?"

His eyes closed, and she could see the same frenetic motion behind them that she'd seen that night at the prison. "Have you ever had someone die in your arms? Watched the life, the light, every tiny little inconsequential yet so very consequential moment just…disappear. Slowly, like it'll never end, and the only thing that stays is the -"

"Pain," Cara muttered. "Yes, I do know."

Her mind pulled and tugged her brother's dying face from her memory. All the while, her heart kept his mischievous smile at the forefront: the perfect shield. When she opened her own eyes again, she found another pair upon her.

"I never knew until they read the charges against me." His mouth twisted, but he continued. "Must've been about a year ago, maybe in this very same room. They had to wait until I was ready. Conscious. They began with several counts of attempted murder, and I almost believed it could end there."

She could see his throat visibly clutch, and she fought to keep her own from doing the same. "Turns out that was just the warm-up. When the next roll-call began, they…they started with him."

"And you thought _no big deal_, right? _Nobody I know_." She turned around quickly and rubbed at her face, breathing deeply because, damn it, she would not do this. Not in front of him.

"'I'm sorry.'" The words and the voice carrying them were simple, and anything but. "That's what I thought, it's the only thing I could think when the names kept coming. Names on a list, some cold criminal protocol, but people….people I respected, admired…people I used to love and still loved….family."

She turned back at the last nearly inaudible word. A whisper that could have been a shout.

"They saved my sister for last. One final exclamation point. And there wasn't this great crushing weight, there was just…something hollow inside, and this dull ache that just seems like second nature now. And all, _all_ I could hear echoing in that hole was the world's most useless, meaningless words: '_I'm sorry_.'" He studied the ceiling, the sterile white. "I won't dishonor him by saying those words to you now."

The bastard wouldn't deprive her of the chance to let him know that all the sorries in the world wouldn't or couldn't matter. She advanced until she stood over him, until he had no choice but to watch her walk away.

When she opened her mouth, though, the recriminations would not come. Other words, long-held questions, found their voice instead. "Why?" she asked. She couldn't keep out the plea, the desperate need for understanding.

Just as he couldn't give it to her. "I don't know."

"They said there was one bullet left in your gun after Jesse shot you. Who was it?" She couldn't say why it was important. She couldn't say why her next breath hinged on the answer. "Who was that last bullet meant for?"

"It was my one certainty, and I would have made sure the job was done, unlike like the good chief." His eyes moved until they locked on hers. "I saved the last 'dance' for me."

####

Brot took the quickest survey he could manage. The next bullet whizzing past his ear ensured the survey lasted roughly 1.5 seconds.

That eyeblink was enough to confirm that the boy still stood rooted to his spot, a look of abject terror in his eyes.

The human shield.

They knew he couldn't return fire, not with the boy in the way. Right now, his gun was about as useful as a twig.

A silence every bit as choking as the dank air and the foul odor reestablished its presence. Brot preferred it to the alternative, though. The steady sound of gunfire would pull him back to two distinct locations, and he had no desire to revisit either.

Barely turning his head, he had to hope the loud whisper would be just enough to accomplish its goal. "On three, get under the table."

The quiet non-reply was the only chance he, or they, had.

"One." He closed his eyes, said the quick-time prayer he'd perfected as a kid.

"Two." He raised the gun. Assumed the runner's sprint.

"Three."

He grabbed the small arm now lodged against his side and pulled. At the same instant, he sent the table hurtling into the quietest corner.

A hail of gunfire shattered the silence.

Brot could only hear the steady pounding of their footfalls as they raced toward the tiny blue square framed by white marshmallow clouds. They burst into a marshmallow as a fiery flame roasted behind them.

He felt the unfamiliar rip of a bullet lodging into his back.

The heated hands pushing them from the ground, however, were familiar.

All too familiar.

Once again, his eyelids fluttered against a brilliant blue sky. And once again, the brightness was marred by a vague outline growing larger and more defined.

"Ryan, what are you –" His question would have to wait, as would the man hovering over him mouthing formless words. The approaching black haze was his new commander.

####

Kendall pulled the small compact from her purse. It was small but made of stainless steel. Strong.

It would do.

They placed the mirror on the bed tray.

"Okay," Erica said, waving her hand and motioning her daughter over. "Get over here."

Kendall sat on one side of the bed. She adjusted the mirror until they were both in view, then took her mother's hand.

Erica squeezed back, cherishing the warmth. She looked over to her empty hand. Her breath caught as she felt the tiniest tug, accompanied by the same full warmth. _Mother_. Her eyes rose and she smiled.

All present and accounted for, except –

"Got room for one more?"

Her smile widened, settled when her gaze moved to the doorway. "Always," she said, motioning once more.

When her other daughter joined her, they made a perfect semi-circle. The circle grew a little wider when a certain _gal pal _tried to excuse herself. All three grabbed her hand, insisting that the honorary member take her rightful place. At the apex was an empty space that was never truly empty. It was the foundation.

Erica did not recite the pledge this time. She left it to the youngest Kane women, who joined them by phone.

Miranda knew the words by heart. She even put the proper dramatic flourish at just the right instant. Sometimes, Erica thought, the little girl had embraced her Kaneness just a bit too enthusiastically. This brought the memory of her mother's one-time warning, about how certain traits may _skip_ to future generations. She both rejoiced and prayed for her youngest daughter if that was the case.

"I'll see you so soon, sweeties. And always remember, grandma loves you."

She frowned. "That's strange. It sounded like they dropped the phone."

Erica addressed a matching trio of frozen, gaping mouths and her frown deepened. "My goodness, what's the matter?" she asked.

"You, you said—" Kendall sputtered off.

"Well, gal pal, I never –" Opal added a head shake to the proceedings.

"Um, I'm sure they…wow." Bianca's wide eyes accompanied the 'wow.'

Erica picked the phone up again and was met by a dial tone. She shrugged. "They must've gotten preoccupied with one of their shows. And yes, I know, I know. I refused to say goodbye."

The gathered group shared a look. Kendall stepped forward. "Yes, that's what surprised us. Right, guys?"

Two quick nods accompanied the assertion.

Kendall's voice lowered but also gathered strength. She took Erica's hand again, gently rubbing a large, prominent vein that at one time might've had Erica in fits. Now, she valued its presence: its affirmation of life.

"And we get it, Mom. We're not gonna say it either. So, see you later."

Erica gazed into the eyes before her now and saw only two things. Her daughter.

And love.

She pulled Kendall in for a lingering hug, savoring every second. "Tell him, Kendall. Tell your husband all of your hopes and dreams, and never, ever stop reaching for them."

"I will," her daughter whispered. She pulled back, dabbing at her eye. "First thing I've gotta tell him is that he won the bet."

"What bet?" Erica asked.

Those three shared another one of those looks.

"Last night's hockey game," Opal offered. "When Zach's team hit that home run, right, Kendall?"

"Right," Kendall said, followed by a quick whisper to her sister. The two exchanged something Erica hadn't witnessed in too long, something priceless: a grin. And just like that, everything else was forgotten.

Her oldest and dearest friend came to her side. The odd couple, some might call them. She'd prefer to think of them as complementary. Like peanut butter and jelly, as Opal might say.

She gave her complementary half one piece of advice as they shared their own hug: "You keep the new old coot on his toes, and give him a run for his money."

Opal stood up with a sniffle. "You got it, sister."

No _gal pal_, but Erica rather fancied the alternative.

As Kendall winked at her mother and led Opal out the door, a rather pronounced bugle sound could be heard. Erica chuckled in unison with her one remaining guest.

"I'm glad you came."

"I…I have a therapy session in a few minutes, but I should be done before…" Her youngest daughter finally lifted her eyes. "I wouldn't be anywhere else."

Erica raised herself up so she could scoot down the bed, but the pair of arms suddenly wrapped around her halted the effort. Held her firmly in place. "Remember what you said, mom. Don't give up. Please."

Stroking her daughter's hair, she didn't just offer a promise, but a guarantee. "I won't." She settled back and the pad of her thumb waited patiently to capture a lone drop. "And neither will you."

One forehead touch sealed their pact.

Erica watched Bianca leave, and the hallway window framed a picture of her daughter embracing a new arrival. This particular snapshot was either fit for a postcard or a warning guide.

Even as her next visitor strode through the door, she still couldn't quite be sure which.

"Stunning as always, Erica."

"Why David, I actually think you mean that."

The doctor only grinned as he took his place on the bed. "When it comes to you, darling, I always say exactly what I mean."

Erica crossed her arms. "Then why don't you tell me what that hug you just shared with my daughter was about. Or what this little visit is about, for that matter. I only have a few minutes before the surgery prep team arrives."

Normally, she would relish being the center of attention, but the steady stream of stares-turned-quick-turn-aways that had encompassed her public appearances over the last few weeks had admittedly reversed that affinity.

David's steady evaluation should have had the same effect, but somehow it didn't. "Bianca wanted me to talk to you about the possibility of taking you on as a patient for Orpheus."

Erica smiled, shaking her head. "She really is this crazy combination of me and my mother. It shouldn't work…"

"But somehow it does."

She nodded. "I appreciate the thought, but you've said yourself that your miracle cure days are over, and we both know that it wouldn't matter anyway."

"My methods are the greatest medical advancement in the last, oh, I'll say fifty years…give penicillin a little nod…"

She knew his bravado too well for a laugh. After all, the statement wasn't meant as a joke. "But they can't beat cancer."

"At least not yet," David said. "So I decided to bring you an even greater medicine, a motivator like no other." That ever-present twinkle in his eye remained. "Me."

"Whatever would I have done without it?" The softness of the words did not quite do their job to sharpen the sarcastic edge.

He reached into his jacket. "In lieu of yet another vase from that five-and-dime downstairs, I brought you something else."

The rather bulky blue wrapping had her both intrigued and more than a little wary. "Something blue, how quaint," she observed.

When he unwrapped the contents, the next quip died on her tongue.

"Just think of it as a little reminder of the take-no-prisoners, fierce diva with the five-inch stillettos and the iron will to match. I know I nor my hand…" He gave his arm an exaggerated shake. "…will not soon forget her."

When he rose to go, she called him back. "David…"

"Thank you." Although she was strangely touched, this was one parting that sure as hell wasn't going to end with a tender hug. "And if you hurt my daughter, I will hunt you down and -"

"Kill me?"

She patted the vise, lifting an eyebrow. "No, I have other methods."

The twinkle in his eye brightened . "The cancer doesn't stand a chance."

####

She couldn't think about her mother and the hope David might or might not provide her, or the surgery that might or might not change everything.

She wouldn't think about the call she'd just overheard about an incoming downed officer nor about the family who might or might not get the most devastating news of their lives in a few short minutes.

The world was full of too damn many _mights_.

She would focus on the one thing she could control: herself. She could take the elevator and leave right now. Easy. Simple.

Or she could roll herself through that door and fall, probably fail, but do. Act. Participating in the new therapy program for paraplegics – and hadn't she always loved the cold technicality of that word - was the hard choice.

It was also the only choice.

She wheeled into the room, answered the assistant's greeting, and scanned her surroundings: the parallel bars she was well acquainted with and the roomful of faceless strangers…save for the one face she knew all too well.

It may have been a little puffier, a year older, with the remnants of a few fading cuts and bruises (the hires had done their job well), but the cold steel eyes now shifting in her direction were unmistakable. They were vintage JR Chandler.

###

She waited. She waited until David was gone. She waited until the voices receded into murmurs and, finally, to silence. She waited until the blinds were shut and the door closed before she invited it in. It coiled, as it always did, around her stomach before moving through her chest – stopping at soft tissue she cupped, once her pride, now her enemy– before settling against her closed eyelids.

She let the fear find its silent voice, distinguished not by words but by harsh hitches of breath. The waves in her throat churned and Erica reached for the pan. She coughed until the waves abated, until her mouth was dry. Raw.

Until a calloused hand brushed away phantom strands of hair. She recoiled at a tender touch she hated but never needed more.

"I'm sorry, doctor, I'm still feeling a bit –"

Perhaps she should have been surprised, humiliated, angry, ecstatic, devastated.

She was none of those things, and she was all of them when she faced her final visitor.

"Jack."


	9. Chapter 9

I hope everyone survived the drumstick battles and the Black Friday melee.

Are those crazy Pvites faring any better?...

####

The woman was hunched against the door, peering in the slotted window and stealing several not-so-subtle glances over her shoulder. A master spy she certainly was not.

Greenlee did the only proper thing she could and offered her rather expert services. "You need to pick that lock? I know this killer trick that involves a -"

Dixie Martin whirled around as if she'd just been caught hovering over the dead maid, bloody knife in hand.

Greenlee slammed into the adjoining wall with a thud, a whoosh, and a pained smirk. "Or maybe just a lookout?" she asked.

The nice girls never were cut out for this kind of work. Dixie rushed over to her with a breathless, "I'm sorry! Are you okay, I just -"

"Was looking to break into the one kind of room most people are itching to bust out of," Greenlee observed with one cocked eye. "And yes, I'm fine. Hard heads have their benefit. Who knew?"

"Good." Dixie glanced again at the door, then down the hall. "If you're really OK, then I'd better get going."

"Hold on, hold on." She wasn't above faking a concussion if need be. After all, lately it might not be such a fake-out. But one way or another, she was getting answers. Nosiness was a vice, but a rather enjoyable one she had no particular desire to rid herself of. "That knock to the head's gotta be good for something, so spill." Opting for the 'nicer' approach, she added, "And the offer's still valid. Maybe I can help. I mean, we do have kind of a bond. We're the charter members of PV's Walking Dead club, after all." OK, bad joke.

"Here, quick," she whispered, drawing Dixie into a bear hug. "Oh, it's been so long, I can't wait to hear all about –" She pushed her flustered companion back and motioned to the passing orderly. "OK, now continue."

"Well, I never actually started." She was doing that eye flutter thing. Damn, the woman could grow wings from her eyelids and probably fly away. Finally, she released a shaky breath. "This is..." She motioned to the mystery door behind them. "This is JR's room."

Greenlee lifted an eyebrow. Word had spread around town like wildfire that the local celebrity con had gotten himself in an "accident" and was admitted to the hospital. Judging by the reactions she'd witnessed to that particular bit of news, she was frankly surprised he'd lasted this long. When Dixie turned back, her eyes had stilled, allowing Greenlee a full glimpse she'd gladly trade for the flutters now. Suddenly, nosiness seemed like a good habit to break.

"I know how everyone in this town feels about him, but he's still my son."

"Your little boy." She quickly cleared the hitch in her throat away. "And you'll always love him, no matter what. It's part of the job description." It might've been easier for her to say. She hadn't experienced the loss that others had, at least not on that day.

"It's never been a job. Never," Dixie said, clearing her own throat. "I need to see him."

"His visitors are probably limited." 'For his own good as much as the general public's,' Greenlee added silently. "But I'm sure they would make an exception for his mother."

"They will, but JR won't."

####

The lotus flower was the very symbol of enlightenment and rebirth. It would bestow upon its recipient peace on earth, good will towards men, the whole nine yards. Whoever had decided to make yoga a prominent part of this _novel_ therapy session should be….well, the punch line might be considered in bad taste considering the circumstances.

Bianca. put the finishing touch on the final pose, her gaze never wavering from the 'patient' two rows in front of her. Good will was taking a hike for the day. The man who had designed and implemented her current seating arrangement was maneuvering himself, with assistance, back into his own matching chair….matching right down to the color-coordinated arm cushions In different circumstances, she might have complemented him on his taste. Right now, she couldn't help thinking that the rough brand of poetic justice that Jesse Hubbard had given JR Chandler was still not enough.

His guard sat perched in the corner, no doubt to heroically counter any misbegotten ideas his prisoner might've gotten about the heavy weights scattered around the room.

It would never be enough.

The session started in earnest, and the requisite military presses and elbow rolls occupied time for a few minutes. Then it happened: the moment when she might gasp or perhaps smirk at the bitter irony if this were a movie and if the stage were not so very, very real.

It was time for pairs therapy.

####

She still had that way of saying it, equal parts exhilaration and exasperation He used to find the dichotomy, the tenuous coexistence, both fascinating and intriguing. It was what had kept him coming back. It was, in one simple syllable, the very summation of their relationship.

"Jack," she repeated, and although he could sense she desperately wanted nothing more, she would not look away.

And he, likewise, would resist certain compulsions. He'd returned to the arms of the deep South, after all, where he would always be "Jackson" or "Mr. Montgomery" or even "sir" to some well-meaning kid. The tried and true Southern gentleman had been dusted off and returned to his former estate, and gentlemen did not ever, under any circumstance save maybe a declaration of war, crack the armor. They gave a friendly shoulder pat, perhaps an embrace in their less guarded moments, and they assured their womenfolk that 'damn it all, everything will be fine.' And the stiff upper lip must always remain firmly in its place, of course.

She wiped at her mouth with her sleeve, a sure strike in the etiquette textbook and a definite violation of her own personal code. She wiped with all of the dignity that the tiny tremors coursing through her would allow and he wanted to throw the whole pretty and proper textbook out the window. He wanted, needed too damn much to just…

He paced the floor, hands on hips. Perfect lawyer's pose. "I was walking past a newsstand in Atlanta, thinking I should catch up on my investments, maybe see how the Phillies were doing this year." He allowed himself a deep sigh, hoping it would help keep the polish he'd worked so hard to maintain from dulling too much. "Must've been some rag paper, with a bad photoshop job to boot. The masthead told me different. Last issue on the stands, too. Seems Erica Kane can still captivate an audience, even in Georgia."

"What do you want me to say?" She wouldn't give him indignation or fierce rebuttals like a proper witness should, like Erica Kane always would. And that, more than anything, cracked the veneer.

"Tell me why a newspaper had to tell me that my ex-wife had cancer."

####

"I don't think this is a good -" He used his half a heart to put up a half-hearted defense.

"We will be fine," she said. The last word held no venom or promises of painful retribution. Blunt, flat, all it could be, and everything she needed it to be.

Obviously, the therapists were not good and proper Pine Valley citizens who read up on the latest scandals and grudges in the Exposer. They simply smiled their artificial smiles and nodded approval at the cooperative nature of their newest star pupil and her therapy partner.

And so they began.

The chair lifts came first. They lifted themselves in a kind of combative harmony that duly impressed their onlookers. Each strained armed muscle was met and exceeded by a forceful push, and the volley continued in the deadest of silences.

They were meant to be support, encouragement for each other: the pairs of hands that would stop the free fall. Positive reinforcement at its finest. Watching the sweat pour from his face…watching the cuts and bruises she had worked so hard to brand him with fade into distant memories, she wished for his free fall from the Grand Canyon.

When he grasped the bars of the harness system, he fell, he stumbled, he cursed, he fell again….and, with trembling arms, he took his first simulated step. She wished for nothing more than to be the pair of hands that would pull away at the last split second.

When she took her turn, she repeated his routine, minus the grand finale. A soft, intense "Come on, Bianca" pulsated in her ears, courtesy of her loyal partner.

Her arms screamed, and she felt what she hadn't in over a year: movement, assisted and fragile as it may be.

And, damn it, she would not give or owe this moment to him. With a vehement push, she freed herself from the harness. The floor was properly padded. Yet it was never harder, or more unforgiving.

"I have to go, my mother needs me." She dared the next helping hand as she fumbled and stumbled back to her chair. To control. "I'm done."

She wheeled past her partner as the guard approached him, handcuffs in hand.

Coldest of comforts.

####

Greenlee had learned this amazing trick since living in Pine Valley. Sometimes, if you just shut the hell up and listened, you might actually learn something. A hard trick to put into practice, but she tried her best now.

Dixie played with a locket around her neck, and somehow it seemed to help her find the words. "52 times. Once a week, faithfully. For his birthday, I brought a couple of his favorite cookies, even though I knew he'd never get them. But it helped, just that stupid little simple process. Each time, I'd sit on one end of the glass and watch my breath appear and disappear just as quickly. I got to be really good at doing that. I'd hold the phone until I could feel my fingerprints burning into it. A few months ago, they replaced the chair I sat in. The other one had a crack on it. It'd finally given out. A few weeks ago, I stopped picking up the phone. But every Friday at 3:15 I still sat in the new chair that I hated…it hadn't been with me, it hadn't endured. I still sat and waited until that familiar face appeared on the other side of the glass. He had blue eyes, a buzz cut that grew sideburns at will, and a bit of stubble. I wanted to tell him the stubble didn't suit him. We'd gotten quite well acquainted during our one-minute interactions. He'd address me, at first it was Ms. Cooney., then Mrs. Martin., but the ending to our little conversation always remained very, very consistent: 'He doesn't want to see you.'"

She did pause then, to give her voice a break, perhaps. To give something else its rest, more likely. Greenlee did not fill the lull with an ill-timed wisecrack or an inappropriate observation. Maybe she was growing. Or maybe, for once, she had no idea what the hell to say.

"It's a different guard stationed outside of his room now, but he must've gotten the memo. The script. Because word for word, it's the same." Dixie patted her knees and stood up, and that new glint in her eyes Greenlee knew well. "But that guard's gone now, and so is JR. I managed to get out of a nurse that he would be in a physical therapy session until, oh, about fifteen minutes from now."

"Squeezing the nurse, huh? Maybe there's hope for you yet." And with that, Greenlee was back in her element. And it fit like a glove. "So, your grand plan?"

"Special circumstances. They're being extra cautious, so there's a lock I can't figure out just yet. But I was going to get into the room before they got back, somehow." Dixie had the good sense to look a little sheepish at her next confession: "And I was going to hide in the bathroom until JR was back and everyone else was gone."

Before Greenlee could offer her unique take on the situation or even offer a useful _Are you kidding_?, more movement caught the corner of her eye. She grabbed Dixie again, but this time pushed the other woman around the corner of the wall.

Partaking in a quick peek to confirm her assessment, she whispered quickly, "Time for Plan B."

Greenlee put on her best game face, grabbed her left side before remembering the appendix was on the right and quickly switching sides. She took a couple of stumbling steps back into the corridor. "Oh," she moaned, because a scream might've seemed just a tad melodramatic and attracted unnecessary attention. She did, however, fall ever so gracefully to her knees.

When she heard the rapidly approaching footsteps and the ever-so-heroic, "You okay, miss?" she moaned through her grin and gave the 'OK' sign behind her back.

She glanced up at the rather dim but well-meaning face and hoped like hell her partner-in-crime had gotten the message. As the guard patted her rather spiritedly on the back, she saw Dixie pass and breathed a temporary sigh of relief. Pretty soon, this guy was gonna be giving her his own modified version of the Heimlich maneuver, and that was one experience she would most certainly do without.

"Ma'an, ma'am?" Oh no, he didn't. She was going to correct him of his misguided use of that word, but he was unleashing another assault to her poor battered back.

"I'm not choking, just need a –"

With one forceful wrench, she twisted the offending arm away.

"Breath." She smiled both wanly and sweetly. "Sorry about that. Must be a side effect."

"Of what?" Those wide eyes suddenly narrowed. "Ma'am, are you on -"

"No, no." Greenlee waved a little too enthusiastically. She'd let the last _ma'am_ slide. "I just meant my medication for…these rather unfortunate gastric issues I'm having." She threw in another moan for good measure.

Greenlee tried to inconspicuously look past the man to catch a glimpse of how things were proceeding, to no avail.

"I'll get some -"

A gruff command cut off the declaration. "Guard, take me back to my room, please."

The man looked between his prisoner and his new damsel in distress, obviously torn.

Greenlee ended the deep turmoil. "I'm alright now. Just had a bout of…gas."

That did the trick. The noble guard couldn't t return to his duty fast enough.

She turned around until JR passed, but her eyes were trained on the woman slowly retreating down the corridor. She should really just turn around and beat her own quick retreat in the other direction. Good sense told her to do just that. Fortunately, she was not well acquainted with her more sensical side. She dutifully chased down the latest Pine Valley drama instead.

Dixie was once again hunched against a wall, and this time Greenlee tread with more caution. When the woman whirled around this time, she braced herself for the push. That, she could handle. The wild-eyed, confused stare that met her instead, not so much.

"Dixie? Dixie?" The \woman hunched down further with each address, almost like an animal either protecting itself, or ready to…

She sprang up, sending Greenlee against the wall of her own accord this time. Her eyes had cleared of the clouds, but the heavy downcast remained.

Greenlee pushed herself from the wall. "What happened?"

"He stuck to the script," Dixie said dully. "I had better go now."

"I really think you –" The 'should see a doctor' remained unsaid. Who was she to be giving lectures on that particular matter? She was still playing hide-and-seek with Dixie's very persistent brother-in-law. "Are right," she finished.

And speak of the devil in scrubs, Jake was currently strolling down the hall, right in their direction.

"Stay strong, Dixie," she offered, briefly holding and releasing the older woman's hand. "And don't tell Jake you saw me, okay?" she added quickly before hurrying away.

####

Her drink teetered on the edge of the tray, so very perilous. He reached out for it, but she grabbed his hand. And, like always, all it took was a touch.

"And they call me self-centered." The tiny smirk reasserted her. It reaffirmed the forever young, eternal force of nature that stood not in combat, but hand in hand with the depleted, tired woman in the bed.

"Sometimes, the journey has to be solo, Jack. I didn't want…" The hoarseness in her voice was just a temporary stumbling block. But he knew what lay on the other end, and despite his best efforts, she kept his hand firmly in place. "I didn't want you to come running back, for us to have some deathbed elopement and end up in the same place we were a year from now. If we were going to lose each other, for once in my life, I was going to do it honestly."

"Erica, you never –" And that right there was a damn dangerous slippery slope…

"Nobility doesn't suit me, I know. I'll leave that to others. But I think it's worked out okay, don't you? You've found a purpose working with the ALC…"

"ACLU…"

She torpedoed right over the correction, and he couldn't help but smile inwardly at that. "…and I can tell that you're finally happy with your work now. It looks good on you."

That, crazily enough, brought a warmth to his cheeks that he couldn't necessarily attribute to the bright hospital lights. Blushing was ungentlemanly indeed.

"And you've found love." Right words, wrong time. She'd never lost that knack, either.

Before he could respond, she responded for him: "I think you should go back to your wife, Jack."

No irony, no cattiness or bitterness.

He discovered that he had no response to give.

"I'm going to be just fine. They even say I might qualify for a reconstruction soon. But either way, you better believe I'll be back to exquisite form in no time, ready for my next new beginning. And, I promise, no kitschy talk shows this time."

His lips brushed her knuckles, a last gentleman's relic. When they moved to her cheek, quite against his expectation or intent, her brief gasp cooled his own cheek.

He did not, could not pull away, and her arms relaxed in his grip.

"We've come too far for me to kid myself that you'll let all of these things you've got bottled up out now. You turned it right off when I came in here, and I'm so sorry for that. But just know that I'm here and I'm not going anywhere, Erica Kane."

He rose with her unvanquishable scent, and one final affirmation, on his lips: "When you're ready."

"Jack -"

Amazing, the power of one word.

"I'm sorry for the interruption, but we're ready now, Ms. Kane."

"And so am I."

The drink cup finally took flight, and rolled to his feet upon impact. Empty.

Erica mouthed a silent goodbye.

Quietly, Jack slipped out the door, the nurse's last words and her patient's subsequent response echoing, following him down the hallway: "Would your husband like to accompany you?"

"He's not my husband."

####

"Oh, very excellent. There's a definite bonus in this for you. They've gotta learn they're in the big girls sandbox now, and who better to teach them than the queen of the box. I made them, and I can most certainly -" She scowled. "Of course Mrs. Slater knows, and I have her full approval. We're a team."

Well, Kendall approved by proxy. What she didn't know…

She collided with an unyielding body, sending her phone sliding across the floor. "Why don't you watch–"

"Put away that phone young lady, or you're grounded."

Greenlee stood rooted to the spot for a solid minute before throwing her arms around the offender. She stepped back, evaluating him head to toe. "You've lost weight," she admonished.

Her father laughed. "Well, at least I know I haven't been packing on the pounds."

His face aimed for merry carefree, but failed miserably on all accounts. "What's wrong?" Greenlee asked. That question had already gotten her into enough trouble today, but she couldn't resist.

"Can't I catch up with my lovely daughter before I sit down for a round of twenty questions?"

"I love you and I've missed you like crazy." She smiled at his surprised smile. "But don't dodge the question."

"I could ask you the same thing. What are you doing in the hospital?"

Now, wasn't that a loaded question with an equally loaded answer. With no desire to recount her recent adventure, she opted for a partial truth instead. "Support. I know I'm not Erica's favorite person, but I can at least roam the halls and send my positively winning vibes." She cut herself off, because she was back to her good, reliable foot-in-mouth self. "That's why you're here." His lack of a reply was all the answer she needed. "Dad, I told you it wasn't a good -"

"I had to, Greenlee."

"How did it go?" She couldn't keep the concern out of her voice, because the look on his face let her know exactly how it 'went.'

"She's got the walls up, to everyone, I suspect. Fortified them good. And damn it, I -"

"Dad, it's not your responsibility anymore." She hated to say it, and she hated the expression it provoked even more, but it needed to be said. "Erica's got support coming out of her ears. Besides, I'm sure you have to get back to Georgia soon."

"I'm staying. My client, as it turns out, wanted to fight this battle at home."

That revelation should have brought her some happiness, but she had a feeling that it was going to result in anything but smooth sailing. Then again, when did things in Pine Valley ever go smoothly?

"What poor schlub wants to throw himself back into the viper's den now?"

Jack either smiled or frowned. In this town, you could never be sure which. "Your brother."

That particular little bomb was temporarily overshadowed by the sudden entrance of her very harried fiance.

"Where were -" She thought better of the question. It wasn't like she'd get a straight answer anyway.

While Jack and Ryan reintroduced themselves, she searched for her phone, to no avail. Odd, she could have sworn it had –

Her fiance's shirt diverted her attention. Or, more accurately, the bright stain currently peeking from underneath the cuff. "Ryan, what is that?"

Ryan followed her glance and, when he noticed the mark, he adjusted the sleeve until the red blotch vanished, just like that. "Must've gone overboard on the ketchup."

He smiled, and his eyes shifted to the right. He'd taught her the art of spotting a con – and a lie – well. As she watched him slip his jacket on, fully covering the bloodstain, she had only one thought: _What are you hiding now, Ryan? _

Her groom-to-be really should've known her better by now. He should've known she wasn't going to stop until she had the answer to that question. She was Greenlee Smythe, after all.

####

The display was…not what they expected.

Some unfortunate animal had escaped from the jungle only to find itself splattered across approximately four feet of hot pink cardboard.

"So, what do you think?" Randi asked with a not-so-enthusiastic arm flourish.

"It's…well, it's…"

Somehow, she didn't think her sister-in-law's sudden aversion to full sentences had anything to do with her medical issues.

Randi offered her brightest and most winning smile to the mall cop strolling down the packed corridor. Then, with another, decidedly more enthusiastic arm flourish, she knocked the leopard-printed monstrosity from its perch. "Oops!" she offered, earning a curious head tilt from Natalia.

"Not what you wanted?" Her current companion hadn't lost that little lilt in her voice that could give the most innocent question a sense of supreme irony.

Randi helped her over to the bench, and they manage to sit on the hard rock of a chair with relative ease. Nat liked coming here because the constant flow of people made it easier to blend in, to block out the harmless, curious, but no less piercing glances she would be gifted with in less confined quarters.

"Not quite," Randi said, trading a fried tomato for a fried Twinkie. The hallowed halls of the food court allowed her to indulge in the occasional guilty pleasure. "I know Amanda wanted to go for non-traditional, but that -"

She sat bolt upright, the remnants of white frosting and yellow cake clinging unashamedly to her fingers. She used those fingers to pull out her cell. "I'm going to find that little three-foot pixie and send her back to lollipop land with the rest of the munchkins."

"Sounds like a _Wizard of Oz_ sequel in the making," Natalia noted.

A vision of a certain former boss with wide, beady eyes and a smirk to match rose in Randi's mind. "Complete with the wicked witch getting the house dropped on her."

No way in hell was Greenlee getting away with this.

The sound of a maddeningly chirpy voice and an equally maddening beep had her pinching her nose for some relief. "Amanda, when you get this, call me back. I –"

The action must've brought a little reminder from her subconscious instead, because a living, breathing ghost of Halloween past had just rushed by.

Randi lowered her arm. The lightweight phone suddenly had transformed into a heavyweight boulder.

"Randi, what happened? "

The ghost of a name wouldn't materialize on her lips.

_Reggie._

She couldn't find any words, until the call came. Until she had to somehow, some way find exactly the right words to tell her sister-in-law that her fiancé was currently in the hospital, injured in the line of duty. And fighting for his life.

When she heard _meth lab explosion_, Randi found the words and Natalia quickly found her footing. In her months of therapy, she'd never been more steady. Determined.

Randi took her sister-in-law to the site of another Hubbard family crisis, the specter of her brother – and her first family – a fading figment...for now.


	10. Chapter 10

Okay, so in order to avoid having everyone slicing turkey on Valentine's Day, we're moving forward timeline-wise to Thanksgiving. Despite the 'togetherness' of the holiday, there are still a few twists and turns coming up. although I'll have to work really hard to top the monumental shocker a couple of chapters back…Erica's utterance of that one little word that begins with a 'G.' It actually surprised me, too, but Erica Kane always must have the final say ; )

####

The turkey…still looked like a turkey. That was a more promising sign than the thick black smoke that had wafted from the kitchen about an hour ago, followed by a pleasant if not strained "We're fine."

Dixie left master and protégé to their own devices. Amanda had confided about a week earlier that she would like to help with the Thanksgiving festivities. When Dixie had brightly suggested that she could assist her with the pie-making and the stuffing, Amanda had bitten her lip before muttering: "I was thinking maybe the turkey?"

The Martin turkey was certainly a hallowed tradition. And she wasn't thinking of the big, Tad-sized one currently strutting around the living room…the one who had traded his chicken suit for a poultry of a different variety. Dixie recognized how much Amanda wanted to be a true-blue Martin matriarch in the making, so she'd subtly but gamely asked about her sister-in-law's cooking prowess. When the younger woman offered a sheepish grin and an "I can learn," she was a little concerned. When Jake happened to overhear the tail end of the conversation and simply responded by dropping his fresh cup of coffee on the floor, that concern ratcheted up a few thousand notches.

But she had nevertheless done her sisterly duties and gone to Ruth on behalf of Amanda. Although she was expecting a solid but absolutely kind refusal – this was Ruth Martin, after all – her mother-in-law still proved she was capable of surprises. She only nodded sagely and said "About time" with a spark finally restored in her eye.

Ruth's insistence on having a "proper Thanksgiving" both touched and inspired Dixie. It made her believe that maybe, just maybe -

"Mom, do you think we should go help Grandma and Aunt Amanda?"

Dixie looked over to her daughter and smiled at the cherry-stained face. "I see that somebody's been stealing from the pie." She dabbed a napkin and gingerly wiped away the sparse but clear evidence of the theft. "No, I think Aunt Amanda's in good hands…the best, actually."

Kathy shrugged and began braiding the next strip of dough. Dixie softly knocked their shoulders together. "Did I tell you how totally amazing you were in the play?"

Her daughter gave her the time-honored kid-to-parent eye-roll. "Only about five thousand times. I only had two lines, Mom."

"They were the best two lines in the whole thing, and you said them with such skill. We might just have a future actress on our hands. And that dress they had for you was completely adorable."

Noting her daughter's expression, she quickly corrected herself. "I mean beautiful. You looked like a beautiful young lady."

She didn't expect boundless enthusiasm at the true but admittedly biased compliment, but she thought maybe she could coax a blush and, if she was lucky, one of her daughter's full-toothed grins. It was the part of her father that she'd inherited most strongly, but it had been in too short supply lately.

Kathy, however, only uttered a barely heard "Thanks."

Dixie spread the cherries out on the crust, musing over a different tactic. Talking with her daughter shouldn't amount to a strategy-planning session, but she needed to connect with Kathy, especially today. "You know, the Thanksgiving dress Grandma bought for you is cute, too. You can put it on later for a little bit and dazzle the family. And don't worry about spilling something on it -"

"I don't want to wear it, okay?"

Dixie winced at her daughter's uncharacteristically harsh tone, and at the remnants of the broken braid in her now-shaking hand.

When Dixie moved to still that hand, she could feel the split-second when Kathy debated whether or not to pull away. When her palm settled over the girl's wrist and the trembling abated, something inside of her – something unidentifiable that lately seemed like a constant rising tide – settled as well.

"I just…don't want to talk."

# (_A few weeks earlier_)

"How is Joe?"

"He's doing better every day. I think we'll have him back soon."

"And…Tad?"

"Still the same, mostly. You know this is his favorite time of the year. Yesterday, he took your sister -"

"You can't keep doing this."

"I can't not do this."

"Please, stop."

"I can't. I won't."

"I have nothing left to say."

-# (_Present_)

She backed off. She backed off because Kathy accepted her hand and, for now, that was enough. The family turkey came up about that time and performed his patented _gobble-gobble _polka. When he recruited two 'hens' for the big finale, he managed to do the one thing that was always his specialty: put a smile that refused to stop spreading and didn't quite know when to end on the faces of both mother and daughter.

An hour later, Dixie's daughter took her hand again, and it was the best feeling in the world. It gave her the strength to close the circle of hands, say grace, and mean it. They concluded with a prayer for the man – the lynchpin – they would all visit later, Thanksgiving dinner and boisterous stories in hand.

The joint effort of her two in-laws had produced a flour-dusted, hair-splayed, but grinning Amanda and a Ruth looking as poised and domestic goddess as ever. It also produced a turkey that was…simply delicious.

Simply right.

####

The buildings had changed over the years: McKay's morphed into BJ's before becoming Krystal's; Holidays took on a more Latin flavor with SOS; The Cluck Cluck Chicken Shack, The Goalpost, and Adam's Place made way for Confusion and the Yacht Club. Countless citizens had moved and moved away. Many miraculous births had occurred, closing the life's circle opened by…deaths.

Each of the faces had to be representative yet distinct, full of their own character.

Character. He wanted, needed to believe that was the one constant of the tiny town laid before him.

Fine detail might have added color and clutter, but he preferred the simplicity. At its core, that simplicity with just the right touch of humor and warmth was what had always captured and captivated his heart.

It had allowed him to find his Queen of Hearts. It had always guided him home.

He smiled. What had once been effortless, second-nature, now refused to be taken for granted.

He kept the curve on his face intact as he added his finishing touch: golden tips for the wings of the smaller angel. The cherubic boy floated carefree over the town, his head turned slightly. Those dimpled cheeks flared when he caught sight of his own beautiful guardian angel with the halo of golden hair behind him.

Stuart took the canvas from the easel and placed his final work of art on the table. He would wrap it separately from the pieces from the gallery opening, and he would make sure it found a home where it would be safe, preserved…far away from its inspiration.

He would ship it away and he would forget.

He would forget so he could remember.

His Marian and Brooke had conspired together on this dinner. His wife, he discovered, still had that inner streak of mischief that only made him love her more. He knew he could, or would never deny her.

One day…

One day to remember who he was. Who they were.

One day to give thanks for family.

For brothers.

####

She frantically pushed through the mountain of cans. The loud clatter only increased her anxiety. Just as the mountain threatened to unleash an avalanche, she found it. It'd taken her days and a trip to Llanview to find just the right brand, but the tell-tale blue-toed elf was grinning up at her now, pleased to be rescued from the company of the Jolly Green Giant.

"Truthfully, I think you always liked this little guy more than his stash."

She smirked as she opened the can and dumped the gelatinous and strangely stagnant contents onto her finest china.

"And don't give me a hard time about the can opener." She waggled the instrument in her hand. "At least I actually got the thing open this time. Remember that one Thanksgiving when we had to get into the cans by slicing them with that big knife? After watching my carving skills, or lack thereof, you got the idea that you were gonna pardon the turkey. Then you decided that you didn't want to hurt a real tree for Christmas, either, so we started putting up our own Charlie Brown tree every year, right before the meal. But we always made it work, despite everything, didn't we? And for a while, it was perfect."

The napkins were a harder find. They were probably buried underneath that stack of magazines and files. Maybe she should get rid of some of them, but she never knew when she'd gain some great new legal insight or need to clip a coupon. She'd already used one to buy the star attraction of their current meal.

She finally secured a pack from the dozen or so lining the couch. Carefully folding the napkins in her best Miss Manners manner, she turned her attention to said star attraction: a can of heaping, helping turkey soup. She didn't bother with the can opener this time. "Starting this tradition was probably for the best anyway, right? I was never exactly renowned for my amazing culinary skills. And we could always rest secure in the knowledge that we'd saved at least one poor innocent turkey from slaughter each year."

Taking her place at the head of the table, she picked up her spoon and left it hanging in the air mid-bite. "Sorry, I almost forgot. Guess I gotta take over these duties now, huh? I'll never get to be as good as you, though. You always got it right somehow." She lowered her head and closed her eyes. "We thank you for the blessing of friends and family on this most blessed of days."

Liza raised her eyes. They lingered for a brief moment on the empty seat beside her before they rose higher and settled on the tiny tree's tinier star.

"Happy Thanksgiving, Colby."

####

It was her first Thanksgiving in about five years They had always strived to put the proper holiday plan together for Bobby and Mike's sakes, if not for their own. After the boys had left home, it had become easier for Cliff and herself to just make it another day. They both had busy schedules, after all, so it could be excused. Plus, the typical Thanksgiving spread was never ideal for a diabetic anyway. She had experienced more than her fill of vegetarian turkeys over the years, so not pretending anymore…relieved her.

Ends were sometimes measured in ripping seconds, as this town had learned in the past year. Sometimes, though, the most painful conclusions were collected in days, months, and years. Sometimes, you just realized the bright, searing flame that had both compelled and repelled, that warmed as much as it burned, had simply dulled just a bit more every day until it was no more than a flicker.

One year ago, she could not say she expected to be sitting at this large table, the only occupant with her silverware carefully stacked in just the proper alignment. She would laugh at the notion of being surrounded by this family of strangers. The genius brother with the sweetness she'd spent a lifetime seeking in their father: her own personal hunt for buried treasure. The mother-in-law she barely remembered as anything but the gum-smacking, foul-mouthed lady that tried to hitch a ride to her children's fortunes, not so much as the eccentric whirlwind of color and vibrancy before her now. And the grizzled recluse long-lost cousin who'd shed the family name only to snatch it back with a smirk and a promise. She'd, surprisingly, discovered more in common with the man who currently had his feet perched atop the fine linen of the Valley Inn's table than with any of her other newfound relations.

Nina cleared her throat, in the most ladylike manner, of course. "While we are waiting to be served, I think now would be a perfect time to offer our thanks."

She was met, in no particular order, with an eye roll, a fidget, and a beaming smile framed by the brightest shade of lipstick she'd ever seen. She folded her hands. When her fellow guests did not follow suit, she offered a strained smile of her own. "I'll start."

"Naturally," came the muffled reply. The source of this musing, however, was hidden behind a trio of straight lines.

"Okay, I am thankful for the opportunity we have been given to get better acquainted. I am thankful for my family, for our family, and for the renewed rise of the Cortlandt name."

That, at least, they could agree on, and they rose their glasses in unison.

Before they could complete their toast, a cacophony of clinks vibrated behind them. "And here's to the fall of the Cortlandt name."

As her cousin's feet slammed on the ground, she closed her eyes and finished the rest of the prayer. She had a feeling it was the last chance she would have today. When Caleb rose from his seat – his gaze lasered on the Chandler men and their significant others - she and Opal reached out simultaneously.

The commotion that suddenly arose from the other side of the room forced her to leave Opal and Peter alone in grizzly management duties.

"Sir, I'm sorry, but you know that we have a policy in regards to your family -"

Nina approached the maitre'd, arms crossed and in full Cortlandt mode. "If you have a problem with this man, sir, then you have a problem with _our_ family."

The hardness in her features couldn't help but soften when she glanced at Jack and his guests. "This man is my husband."


	11. Chapter 11

It's still Thanksgiving day. Can the PVites rediscover the Thanksgiving spirit and perhaps take a few more steps toward reclaiming the spirit of PV itself?

Time will tell...

####

It wasn't exactly one of the Thanksgiving celebrations captured on their small TV, but it looked nice enough: tables covered with plates and dinnerware, clusters of people, the tell-tale smell of cooking turkey…there were even fancy tablecloths, candlesticks, and employees clad in suits. One of said employees was currently squirming underneath the glare of the woman who looked like she'd just stepped fully dressed from the pages of Business Weekly.

A boy who was casting nervous glances at two older gentlemen talking behind him ushered them over excitedly. Reggie shrugged and led them away from the poor maitre'd.

When they reached the table, the boy nervously adjusted his glasses and pulled out a seat. They collectively winced at the subsequent loud screech on the floor.

"I guess we're family now, sort of," he said.

"My father is married to your sister, so we are stepfamily," Lily elaborated before taking the offered seat.

The boy was still looking down at her with an enthusiastic grin when Greenlee coughed rather loudly. This shook their new host from his daze and he stumbled over a table leg to offer Greenlee her own seat.

"Why thank you, Pete." Greenlee smiled innocently.

He moved back towards Lily, but stopped under the watchful eye of Reggie.

"Oh, you haven't met," Greenlee observed, popping a bite of roll into her mouth. "This is Reggie, Lily's brother," she added with another smile.

Pete stuck his hand out, and she wanted to reach out in turn and wipe the sweat from the poor kid's palm.

"Pleased to greet…I mean meet you."

Reggie divided his attention between the fidgeting boy in front of him and Lily, who was now faithfully arranging her silverware. Finally, he accepted the handshake and ended it just as quickly. "Likewise."

"And this is Yasmin," Greenlee chimed in again, motioning to her now. "Reggie's wife."

She accepted the handshake with what she hoped was a little more warmth than her overprotective husband. "It's very nice to make your acquaintance, Pete."

A somewhat bumpy if not interesting start to her first Thanksgiving, and her first day in Pine Valley, but all in all, not too bad. Obviously Reggie was just exaggerating about…

It all seemed to happen at once, as if the forces of Thanksgivings past were converging to remind certain people about the dangers of assumption.

Reggie's dad and his stepmother joined them, finally liberating the maitre'd, who could be seen slinking away in the background. Greenlee promptly greeted her stepmother by offering a _well-meaning _observation on the latter's wardrobe choice. A sudden cracking snap resulted in Pete's disappearance from the festivities. Lily was currently studying the floor and offered another blunt observation: "Your chair broke."

Her husband, meanwhile, had disappeared himself. When she followed her new father-in-law's surprised gaze, she knew the reason why. Currently engaged in another _spirited_ exchange with the maitre'd was the woman who she felt she knew already, and not just from the magazine covers and glamorous interviews. She watched as Reggie threw his arms around Erica Kane.

When a grape subsequently flew into her drink, she raised an eyebrow.

When the neighboring table crashed into their own, along with the two white-haired men who had been talking just minutes before, she managed to rescue the drink.

When she looked over the two brawling figures, Greenlee had raised her own glass in a toast.

"Welcome to your first Pine Valley Thanksgiving."

Yasmin could only raise her glass in return.

####

It wasn't a postcard, but it was here. It was with the small body currently tucked behind a chair, neatly hidden from the other small body that was examining the tiny kid-sized space between the couch and the wall. Almost-matching faces, but a freckle here and wispy strand of hair there. Just enough to make them different.

It was with the tired face that somehow managed a genuine smile when a different small whirlwind toddled up, marker-stamped picture in hand. She knew that smile well. It was the unmistakable smile of a mother.

The spirit of the holiday was here.

Natalia wanted nothing more than for the lightness and happiness filling this place to reach for the boy sitting in the shadows…the boy who just might have the answers.

Brot took in the surroundings. His expression told her that he had exactly the same thoughts.

The slight tremor in her arm – almost natural by now – diminished just a bit more when a warm hand slipped into her own. She squeezed, feeling the still-stiff muscles of his arm relax. They would always be each other's favorite form of therapy.

"We'll go to Bianca's office and make sure it's okay to talk to him. And I'd like to volunteer for the dinner too, if you're okay with that. I can't think of a better group of people to spend Thanksgiving with."

"Absolutely," she said. And that was all they needed. In some ways, her still-persistent speech difficulties had taught them just how much meaning could be packed into one simple word.

They might not be able to offer much in the way of assistance, A TBI case study and a cop recovering from a bullet in the back weren't exactly prime volunteer candidates, but maybe, just maybe they could relate to the center's occupants on a more fundamental level.

After dropping a sleeping little Angie off at the daycare unit for a short stay, Frankie, Randi, and her father – because they were all determined, one way or another, to spend this holiday together – joined them at the door of the main office.

All that was missing was the swivel chair as David Hayward greeted them with a smile.

He strode around the desk, and Natalia found herself checking the cop impulse to search the desk's drawers for any missing valuables…or bloody letter openers.

David scanned a file before closing it, the smile never leaving his face. "I know, you must feel like you've stumbled down the rabbit hole. David Hayward doing charitable work."

"We've heard at the hospital that you're working here now," Frankie said.

Her brother, ever the diplomat.

David's grin only spread. "I see the esteemed nurses of Pine Valley Hospital are still keeping the rumor mill churning, and with their favorite subject, too. Good to know I'm missed." The lack of a reply didn't hinder him. "As you can see, Bianca is out of the office at the moment, and she was kind – and smart – enough to turn over the reins to me."

Natalia observed her companions to see who would be the first to offer their insight about the inmates running the asylum. The inmate himself supplied the retort, with tongue firmly planted in cheek.

"How may I help you?" he finally asked, and she wondered if the word 'may ' had crossed his lips for perhaps the first time in his life.

"We'd like to volunteer," Randi said.

David nodded but didn't move. He was waiting for the rest.

Brot supplied it. "The boy that you took in from the drug lab accident…we'd like to talk with him."

The nod quickly transformed into a headshake. "Not a good idea. I've examined him, and while physically he's fine…"

"Look, I'm not going to do anything that makes him uncomfortable or scared. I know how that feels. We went through that experience together, so maybe I can help him."

"Maybe we all can," Natalia added.

David mulled it over. She was prepared for the 'no',' and subsequently prepared to arm herself with all the short but well-placed words she'd need.

"Okay," he said. "And there are a few spare aprons over there. I'm sure the nice one with the flowers will look particularly fetching on you, Hubbard."

Her father did step forward at that remark and extended his hand. To her surprise, though, the fingers weren't curled into a fist. In fact, if she didn't know better, she might even say her father's hand was prepared for a handshake.

"You're a large part of why Angela could fully experience her life again before -" He faltered, but his hand remained steady. "Thank you, Doctor."

David Hayward had likely spent a lifetime mastering every facial expression in the book, carefully picking and choosing which mask to bring forth at will. Natalia, however, saw no mask. It seemed her father had achieved the near-impossible and caught the not-so-esteemed doctor in a rare unguarded moment. The face she saw before her now reflected the shock that was likely similarly etched on each of the occupants in the room. That shock, however, was temporarily but unmistakably overpowered by something else. Some might even be crazy enough to say that Hayward was…touched.

Without a word and without breaking eye contact, the two men simply joined hands.

David broke the handshake first, clearing his throat. "I'll have to leave soon, as I have plans myself." His grin was mostly _Don't look so shocked_ with an undercurrent of something Natalia couldn't quite identify. "I will be sure to inform the rest of the staff of your visit with Gavin, so you won't have any problems."

Before they prepared to leave, Natalia noticed her sister-in-law standing a few feet away, her eyes fixed on a desktop photograph. "Randi, is everything alright?" she asked.

Everyone's attention diverted to the other woman who looked up, startled. Truthfully, Natalia wasn't sure if the reaction resulted from being the sudden and unexpected center of attention or from whatever had so occupied Randi's focus.

"I was just…looking at this picture. It's quite beautiful, and everyone looks so -"

"Well, they ought to look good," David intruded in his usual charming manner. "Only the best for Erica Kane's, what was it, 11th or 12th wedding?"

Randi's full attention returned to the picture. "I…don't recognize everyone. Who are these two?"

Big sis was definitely going to have to brush up on her detective skills.

David simply snarked, "Those are Montgomery's two rent-a-kids, Lily and Reggie."

Randi recovered well, but Natalia's own detective skills had not totally abandoned her. She made a mental note to work on the latest family mystery later.

For now, however, David ushered them out the door, providing some ground rules for their talk with the boy.

As they collectively moved down the hall, her father turned back briefly. "And Hayward, just so you know, you're still not on my Christmas card list."

The grin never left David's face as he shook his head. "I wouldn't dream of it."

####

Everyone seemed strangely unconcerned about the two old geezers currently chest-puffing in the corner of the room. That was, until one of Opal's trademark Thanksgiving hats became the first victim, sending a flurry of fruits sailing in every direction. When a wayward grape rolled to her foot, she picked it up.

Five second rule, and not bad. Kendall had a feeling it might be the only meal she'd be getting today.

But hey, at least the table was - spoke too soon. Right around the time Reggie came bounding up to their rag-tag little group, distracting her mother from her "I am Erica Kane" speech, she signaled to Zach. With the trademark Zach Slater smirk playing at the edges of his lips, he ushered the boys out. Not before her youngest managed to get a peek over his shoulder at the festivities, though.

"But I wanna stay and watch," a tiny voice could be heard proclaiming from the hallway, quickly followed by a slightly older but no less enthusiastic, "Yeah, this is better than hockey."

A little torn about which spectacle to watch herself, Kendall opted for the closest one.

"Erica, it's so awesome to finally see you."

Her mother pulled back, but kept firm hold of Reggie's hands. "And look at you!' she said, patting her former stepson's mostly shaved head. "You're taking on the Erica Kane look, I see. You look so…gentlemanly."

Reggie straightened his jacket with exaggerated aplomb. "Yeah, I'm a real live grown-up now."

"Who isn't ruining anymore fine china, I hope."

They all took in the free-for-all behind them. Caleb currently appeared to have the upper hand, and their maitre'd had found himself roped into the unfortunate role of referee. A tie was the next souvenir to land at their feet.

"Well, I don't think we'll be worrying about plates for a while," he observed before sidling up beside Kendall. "Hey, Gumby, been a while."

In the absence of a quick retort, she only said, "Get over here, you," and pulled the kid who'd been a brother to her into another Kane hug.

"Hey, I'm feeling left out."

Greenlee, with her usual impeccable timing, had sauntered into the fuzzy family moment. And in the tradition of time-honored fuzzy moments, Reggie answered his sister's request for inclusion with a vigorous head-rub.

"Hey, hey, watch the hair, squirt."

"Who are you calling squirt, shortstuff?"

"You."

"Just making sure."

Greenlee took her place beside the unusual extended family and observed the proceedings. "What do you think the odds are that she gets hit by a flying plate? Accidently, of course." She motioned to the woman who was currently trying and failing, along with her husband, to play mediator.

"Stepmommy issues, Greenlee?" Kendall cracked.

"It should've been –" Reggie stopped himself, which wasn't really necessary. Her mother was a million miles away, or at least a few feet across the room.

It was one of the rare times when the treatments actually didn't prevent her from enjoying a meal and she'd insisted on having the dinner here, in a sign of Kane empowerment. Now, although entertaining, Kendall was questioning the wiseness of that decision. Of course, _wise_ was one word that had likely vanished from the Kane vocabulary the moment her grandmother died.

"We should be a family," Reggie finished quietly but firmly.

"We are," Kendall said, putting an arm around him.

"Speaking of family, where's Bianca? I haven't talked to her much in the past year."

_Join the club_. Kendall kept that particular remark to herself. "She's picking up the munchkin and the rugrat from the airport."

Reggie shook his head. "I haven't even met Gabrielle, and I haven't seen Miranda since she was a baby. She's probably just as sweet as ever, though."

"Oh, she's the spitting image."

"Of Bianca? I knew it."

Kendall and Greenlee exchanged a look and a grin before their eyes settled on Erica. "Yeah, you'll see for yourself soon enough."

"And Ryan?"

This time, the look between the two was decidedly less light.

"He had a previous engagement," Greenlee said, and left it at that.

But Reggie's mind was already elsewhere. "There's someone I want you to meet."

He had a reluctant Kane in each hand now.

The last thing Kendall remembered was getting closer to the battleground….to hesitant smiles mixed with enraged shouts of "My son!"…

And then the turkey took her out.

#

Her return to the land of the living some time later was marked by an annoying fly swatting at her head, so she swatted in kind.

"Ow!"

As her eyes focused, she was greeted with the image of Greenlee rubbing her head. "See what being a good Samaritan does for you."

Spike's infectious grin appeared behind her, and the ache in Kendall's head immediately cleared.

She finally raised up. "What happened?"

She was flanked by Greenlee on her left and a smiling Zach and Ian on her right.

"Let's just say our tables are pretty much kaput, except this one."

Gazing down the long table, her eyes widened.

Further up were, in short order, her mother, Reggie, a girl she didn't know (she hoped to hell she didn't have a semi-bout of amnesia, which caught like a cold in this town), Jack, Nina, Lily, and Pete. Then there was Caleb with one of Opal's orange napkins – and the orange-haired woman herself – dabbing at his lip. Oh, but their merry little group did not end there. Heading the other end of the table was the guy she once tried to murder along with the man she'd been on trial for murdering. They were joined, of course, by the woman who'd once tried to shoot her and her mother's worst enemy. To top it off, Adam Chandler had a piece of raw steak over his eye.

Greenlee leaned over and whispered, "They agreed to let us stay - in the spirit of the holiday - on one condition. Well, two: somebody's gotta pay for this mess, after all. But at least we didn't start it this time."

Well, she had to hand it to Miss Brightside.

Despite everything, Kendall's rumbling stomach was her biggest concern right now, so when the waiters arrived armed with a nice big covered dish, her taste buds practically called out for the turkey. Luckily, they were beginning on her side of the table. She rubbed her hands together in anticipation and smiled at the waiter as he served her a nice, fat…leg of fried chicken.

She looked over to her husband. Surely he could put some of his ever-famous _men_ on it.

He only shrugged. "The turkey met an unfortunate end after bouncing off your head, dear."

Her mouth was still open when he took her hand and their son's hand, linking a chain that continued around the table: Jack was joined to both her mother and his wife…Lily had touched fingertips with Reggie and Pete Cortlandt…Opal faithfully grasped her son's other hand along with that of trouble-maker #1, Caleb who – and she didn't think her mouth could open any wider – was ever-so-lightly but unmistakably brushing the hand of trouble-maker #2, Adam Chandler….and so it continued until Greenlee leaned over again and whispered, "Time to make good on that condition."

The now-composed maitre'd stood at the table's forefront, hands folded, and she prepared herself for massive chaos, or at least the declaration that they were all banned from the PV Inn for life now. When their singing waiter warbled out the first note, she almost laughed. When one by one, the rest of their table joined in, she almost reached for the non-existent earplugs.

Instead, she simply threw her hands up, offered a _What the Hell_, and joined in just in time for the chorus of _Kumbaya_.

####

He tore open the bag like a kid on Christmas eve. After unwrapping the tinfoil, he looked up with scowl. "A turkey sandwich? Really, bro? You couldn't even swing for a piece of pumpkin pie?"

David tossed his own paper bag onto the table. "Hey, the holiday's all about bringing families together, right?" He smirked at his brother. "We've got that part set, so sit." He waved at the melting hunk of wax adorning the table's middle. "Look, I even provided candlelight."

Leo, despite his protests, was already digging into the offending sandwich, finishing off half the meal in two bites.

David shook his head and sat down. "Manners, dear brother. And what about giving thanks?"

This brought out a guffaw followed by a sputtering cough. Leo wiped his mouth, still chuckling. "I'm sorry, but is David Hayward actually suggesting that we pray?" He settled back. "Wow, I really have been away too long."

David folded his arms. "Are you done yet?"

Leo held his hands up before promptly folding them. "OK, I'm sorry." He cleared his throat and closed his eyes. "Good God, let's eat." He cocked one eye open. "How was that?"

Try as he might to keep the stern look going, David couldn't quite manage. "Oh, just perfect," he said before picking up his own Thanksgiving meal.

"While we're on the subject of family, she…uh….she hasn't come back on the radar yet."

The sandwich was so close to his lips that he could practically taste the stale bread already. He dropped it with a sigh. "You know, Dixie Martin once asked me the identity of my latest mystery patient . I told her that she, that everybody would be better off not knowing. I think that _everybody_ includes you and me. To this day, I don't know why I did it."

Leo had seemingly lost his own voracious appetite. "She's family," he said. "Believe me, I know how powerful a motivator that can be."

"Yeah, I guess you do." David tried to find the right words. It was the honest moments he was never good at. Perhaps that was why he had so few of them. "I never regretted finding you, not for a minute."

Leo smiled faintly, but it was enough. A couple of cons with communication issues, who knew?

"I've got to keep looking," he said. "Until we get this thing under control, no one's safe."

The way his brother lingered on that _no one_ et off a warning bell. "Any particular 'no one' in mind, Leo? I thought we agreed that your little reunion in that room would be the last."

Leo scratched his head. Also not a good sign. For a former con, his brother had a surprising number of 'tells.' "She still think that was a dream?"

"A drug-induced illusion," he clarified. "And I thought you wanted it to stay that way."

Now he couldn't even look David in the eye. The mostly-eaten sandwich was somehow the most fascinating object in the room now. "I did," he muttered. "I _do_. As long as she's happy with him, and as long as she's safe. But when I saw her at the memorial -"

"What?!"

At least his brother had the good sense to look shamed. "It was just for a minute, okay? I…I wanted to pay my respects to your daughter, my niece, even if I never knew her. I never got the chance with Babe or with…with my namesake."

This revelation brought David an unexpected jolt of pain, but it also validated why he could never stay angry with his brother for long. "That's…I understand and thank you."

Leo only nodded, and the two fell into a short silence, each perhaps temporarily lost in their losses.

"It was a beautiful memorial," Leo finally said.

It was David's turn to look away. "I'm sure it was. I just…I've been to more memorials in my life than weddings or christenings. I couldn't do it again." He rubbed his temples, trying to force the focus back. "You were saying, about Greenlee?"

"Don't get mad…" he began. Never a promising opening. "I think she saw me."

Before David could forget all about his uncharacteristically forgiving nature today, Leo rushed on. "But I don't think she recognized me. I was able to get out of there before she caught up. And I also may have dropped a handkerchief, but don't freak out about that either. I came back later. I had to get it back because she gave it to me as a sign of how we'd be together in Paris one day and living the high life. And I'm babbling I know but the short of it is that it was still there on the table so she must not have seen it or recognized me."

His brother had to pause for a breath then, but he still was very much the little boy waiting to be scolded for dropping the vase.

David only sighed again and slouched back in his chair. "It's okay. I, better than anyone, understand the pull she has."

"And we're going to have to have a long discussion about that one day." This time, there was nothing _little boy _in the tone. "She just looked sad, David." The tone softened considerably and lost its sarcastic edge. It was a tone he knew his brother reserved only for a select few.

"Well, it was a memorial, Leo. Sad is to be expected."

"Lost," Leo corrected then, without hesitation. "I just—"

"Don't finish that thought," David said, rising from the seat before this could progress any further. "But do finish your dinner. I've got another stop to make."

Leo watched curiously as he picked up a third paper bag.

"Didn't know we were having another guest."

David secured the bag underneath his coat. "We're not. We're the guests this time."

####

Jesse and Brot had spent at least a half-hour alternating between every tactic imaginable, all to no avail. Frankie and Randi had long since assumed serving duties. The boy obviously did recognize Brot, which was promising since both her father and fiancé hoped the boy could likewise remember the identity of the man who'd taken the injured individuals to the hospital after the explosion. Brot's memory of the details immediately preceding the accident was virtually non-existent, but the boy seemed to be another story. More than a few times, Brot appeared to be reaching him, but he would always inevitably withdraw back into his silence. They still didn't even know if he was the child of one of the men killed in the explosion. If that was the case, it would certainly explain his hesitance.

Natalia had an idea. When she caught Brot's attention, she silently gestured to the serving table. His brows creased, then raised almost as quickly. He gave his own slight imperceptible nod. The wordless exchange was enough, as it usually proved to be.

She walked to the table with only slight difficulty. The next step, however, would be a greater challenge. Concentrating on the serving spoon, she placed her palm on the handle and quietly recited the mantra the therapy had ingrained in her.

When she saw a pair of smaller hands appear from the corner of her eye, she looked down and smiled. The boy gazed up at her with unabashed curiosity.

"When it gets too hark….hard, a pair of helping hands always makes it better. Can you help me?"

Small fingers grasped the ladle, and together they served their first Thanksgiving meal. For the next hour, they would serve many more, minus questions, pressure, and obligations.

The Hubbard family Thanksgiving mission was reborn in the form of one smiling little boy.

####

David scanned the dark surroundings before they entered the facility.

Leo whistled. "Back into Frankenstein's lab. This brings back memories."

"It's the third door on the left,' David said, ushering his brother along.

"Another patient?" Leo asked.

David took a moment before responding. "I'd like to think of her as a friend. And don't laugh this time," he added.

Leo shook his head. "Saving someone's life has a way of endearing you to someone…along with your winning personality, I'm sure." He hesitated. "As long as you're not-"

"Imprisoning her?" David finished what his brother couldn't or wouldn't. "No, brother. She's another you. Here by request."

They opened the door and entered. David put a finger to his lips. "She's still sleeping. Her fever finally broke last night, but it knocked her out for a while."

Leo moved closer, standing over the sleeping form. "I—she's from the memorial…the pictures." His widened eyes illuminated the dark room. "Bro, what have you done?"

"Simple." David put the bag away and joined his brother at the bedside of Angie Hubbard. "I saved her life."


	12. Chapter 12

This chapter will be a short one. In light of what's happened this week, dealing with some of the subject matter was more difficult. I - as I'm sure everyone reading this will do - will keep anyone suffering real-life tragedies this holiday season in my thoughts and prayers.

####

He was kissing her neck and lingering on that spot that he knew oh-so-well. His hands were both rough and gentle as they moved toward her back, taking their inevitable course.

And all she could think about was the small tracking device she'd just planted inside his coat as he showered.

The touch that had once set her on fire now chaffed, and she pushed him away. It was just a reflex, so he shouldn't have looked so hurt. Or perhaps the reflex – the instinct – was why he had every reason to be hurt.

"It's been a long time," he said, running a hand through his hair. "I just wanted…"

He couldn't finish it, or maybe the root of it all could be boiled down to that one word.

_Want_.

"I have -"

"Please, don't say you have a headache, Greenlee." The grin held no humor. "I think we've moved past that excuse."

Fine, if he wanted honesty when he was capable of providing none himself, then she'd give it to him. "I have questions."

He pulled on his pants, obviously feeling that the night's mission could be written off as a failure. Truthfully, she was not altogether sad about his lack of initiative.

"I've told you, I can't talk about my -"

"Cases that are obviously more important than spending Thanksgiving with your kids, I know." She didn't mention their own lack of a Thanksgiving together, and she didn't stop to wonder why.

"That's not fair, Greenlee."

"Oh, I think it's very fair, Ryan."

She'd actually supported his need to 'rediscover' himself after what had happened at that mansion. The sad fact was, not one person who was there that night truly left as the same person. So if her wayward fiancé wanted to fuse his former con-man ways with his ever-present hero complex and go all PI Joe, then who was good ole' Green Butterfly to stand in the Dynamite Kiddo's way?

Little things like bloody shirtsleeves had a way of changing perspectives, though.

He had already turned his back to her, so when he simply asked, "Do you want me to take the couch?" she really had to resist the urge to kick him to said couch.

It could never be that easy with them, though. And she was tired. Yes, she could blame everything on the fog rapidly descending around her eyes. "Let's just go to bed," she finally said.

#

He kissed her, and she was lost in wonderfully familiar, rational irrationality. His parting left her panting, and she reached, reached for him…to him…

He was in the shadows, but the area beside her on the bed held a still-sleeping form.

She should watch those easy, steady movements. Her eyes, however, craved the darkness. The shadows.

"Who are you?" she asked, although she couldn't say if the words ever found form.

They must have.

They must have, because she heard the response just as clearly.

Felt it.

"You know."

Just as her fingers felt, then clasped the soft fabric in her hand.

She didn't awaken with a pulse-pounding, sweat-soaked start, but with a rhythmic, persistent drumbeat. Greenlee pressed one hand against her chest.

Behind her, a groan broke the quiet, followed by a tense "No, no." She turned briefly toward the empty space between them. Ryan had settled back into an easy, if not peaceful sleep.

Greenlee reassumed their former, familiar positions: back-to-back. Her eyes, once again, searched the shadows.

####

It cleared.

It always cleared, and he felt every difference. The wrong curves, the wrong marks, the wrong soft skin, and the wrong set of dark eyes.

The mouth, and oh had he attacked it so voraciously before…those tempting lips that had made him forget now only served as bitter reinforcement.

Where the tiny part and the teasing smile should have been there was only swollen, trembling skin too much like his own.

He should have kissed her again, more tenderly. Maybe he should have held her in his arms and let her relinquish, let her surrender her control in a better way. A healthier way.

Maybe when he rolled onto his back and let the chilled air dry them, maybe when he stared at that blank ceiling, maybe he should have shattered the tense quiet that always settled afterward with a simple word.

Maybe he should have stayed.

Maybe then the too-familiar ritual could have been broken.

One knock, only one now. No logic, no communication but the tearing, ripping. Chasing away the quiet by filling it with more primal sounds. Full exposure while risking no exposure. Pushing piles of unidentifiable meaningless nothings off the table, the wall, the bed, any available surface.

It was always rough, quick, but just long enough…just long enough to get lost. To pound and wail and gnash at the memories; to preserve them in their precious box.

Two people joined by their paralysis, their instructions that they weren't _objective _enough, weren't _detached_ enough. Two people who by God would be joined by something other than the one thing that now defined their lives.

Maybe Jesse should have stayed with Liza.

He never could.

####

It wasn't the slender red dress with that tantalizing slit that she liked to save for special occasions. It wasn't the lacy little black number for _really_ special occasions. Hell, it wasn't even his ultimate kryptonite: the Red Wings jersey. that covered, well, just enough. And too damn much.

It was just a wrinkled, slightly torn and oversized tee marked not with perfume, but with the remnant's of Ian's latest masterpiece. And by God, if he didn't get it off of her right now…

She pushed away from his spirited appraisal of her neck with a smirk.

His growl into her collarbone brought a chuckle… Not the light, airy chuckle, but that _other_ one that drove him…

"Easy, tiger."

He growled again, and his lips were peppering well-timed kisses between always-intrusive words. "Tigers…are…overrated."

"It's not an optimal time on our schedule, you know."

He looked at the flickering screen, complete with the suited-up guy, the rain-soaked girl, and their candlelight dinner that defied even a rainstorm. Perfect plans go awry.

His calloused thumb traced a soft cheek and, as always, he marveled at the inconsistency, the dichotomy, the paradox that somehow always made perfect sense. His breath left a trail of small bumps as first his nose, then his lips brushed an earlobe, releasing a faint breeze that carried a very clear message. "I love you.'

His hand was finding warm and very responsive skin underneath that shirt. A few brushes and a well-placed pinch, and schedules did that thing they always did best: disappeared.

"This is my settled-in, old lady look," she offered breathlessly.

Zach's exploration stopped just long enough to offer a suggestion. "How about this old lady _settles in_ with her old man in their old bedroom?"

She grabbed his hand and proceeded to show him just how receptive she was to that suggestion.

#

He'd never been a dreamer. But he'd had the free-falling, jump-awake moment a few too many times to count. As a kid, it was practically his morning wake-up ritual.

This, this was different. At least with falling, there was some freedom. Some sense of escape. Not the rapidly closing walls of blackness. Not the...

With effort, he pried his fingers from the death-grip they'd had on the sheets since he woke up a few minutes earlier. They ached from the tension, and from basic need. He moved closer and wrapped each finger around its perfect complement: its other half.

Zach had never been a dreamer, but sometimes...sometimes he was a believer.

####

I would like to end on a positive note by passing along something that you may or may not have heard already. Over the past couple of weeks, some reputable individuals and sites have suggested that ABC may be mulling over ideas to resurrect AMC and OLTL in some form or fashion once they get the full rights back in January. Seems the powers that be may be having 'buyer's remorse' in regards to some decisions they have made. It might be a long shot, but there's always hope...


	13. Chapter 13

I trust everyone made it through the apocalypse ; ) Fortunately, all of PV's residents did, too, and they'll be celebrating the holidays for the next couple of chapters. I hear Father Clarence is still lurking around town…

Happy holidays, and let's hope Prospect Park – or someone else, perhaps - can pull off a holiday miracle!

####

In absence of the chimney, Santa had apparently opted for her front door. He wasn't quite as stealth as he believed, though. Cara happened to be a longtime scout of Papa Noel and Los Tres Reyes Magos, so she managed to get the jump on her visitor. When she opened the door and stood over him, he was still poised mid-crouch.

He gazed at her sheepishly, the green box dangling in his hand.

She crossed her arms. "I guess the whole Secret Santa thing's not working out, huh?"

"I…I just wanted to -" When David raised up, he ran his free hand through his hair, creating an unkempt mess in the process. Mr. Calm and Collected was transforming into Mr. Frazzled before her eyes.

Finally, he hesitantly extended his arm. The slight trembling he'd blame on the lingering aftereffects of his injury. She knew better.

"Could you just give this to him, please? It's not anything special, but I'd like him to have it."

As she accepted the package, her sure grip steadied both the present and its giver. "It is special, though, because it's from someone more important to him than he'll ever know."

In order to ease the awkward silence that threatened to drape over them, she playfully tapped the box. "His first stethoscope?"

Finally, he returned the smile. It wasn't the smirk to which everyone was accustomed, but he wore it well.

"No, I have a feeling he's gonna make his own mark out there. This, it's -" he signaled to the small flat box –"you can open it later. It's more of a - you know what? You can just throw it away. It's not -"

She lifted the lid as he blew out an audible breath. The king of control hated nothing more than relinquishing his bounty.

Cara's smile widened as she traced the stem. Her fingers lingered on the fiery star at the flower's end.

"I know it's a tradition where you're from, and the flower, my…my father used to grow them. They were always one bright spot. I thought maybe you could attach it to his crib, but it's fine if you don't."

By the time she had managed to pry her eyes away from the most beautiful poinsettia she had ever seen, he had already turned to leave.

She grasped the tiny patch of skin that wasn't covered by coats or gloves. It was still warm.

"I think Alejandro would like it very much. But since it's your gift, I think you should be the one to give it to him."

His head tilted slightly, and another soft sigh crackled the chilled air.

"I'll go with you, and we can hang it together. We're in this together," she emphasized.

For the next minute, neither of them moved, but she knew a thousand battles were being waged.

The door was still open.

When he turned back and quietly followed her inside, Cara sent a silent thanks for the small victory.

#

His eyes could sparkle like a child's on Christmas morning. She'd seen the effect maybe twice, and he really didn't let the rest of the world see it nearly enough. The object of his wonder graced her with that same magic every day. Currently, though, the magic was contained behind closed lids.

That fact did not stop David from gazing with unabashed fascination at the slight rise and fall of their son's chest. Cara attached the flower to his carousel. Alejandro shifted just slightly, but his face – and his fleeting, bright smile – were now in full view.

The visible movement in David's throat gave rise to the ghost – the inspiration – of that tiny smile.

"Thank you," he said so softly that she could barely distinguish the words. He stepped back. "I…I should go now."

"Thank you." This time, she didn't need a hand to stop him. "We'd like to invite you to la Misa Del Gallo, otherwise known as midnight mass**; **It's a tradition, too…a family tradition."

"David Hayward in a church at midnight? The place might go up in flames." His face passed through the shadows of the room, but she knew every hiding place too well.

Cara only smiled. "Or maybe we'll just have ourselves an early Christmas miracle."

He didn't say no.

He didn't walk away.

And maybe, just maybe, the miracle had begun.

####

Approximately 53 minutes remained until 9:00 PM Eastern Standard Time, when the gathering was scheduled to end. She could make sure that each file was properly categorized. Given her new system, this task might last approximately 23 minutes. 30 minutes would still remain. She had already performed each of the required party rituals. She had consumed one half of a cup of the drink that tasted nothing like eggs. She had received a scarf from the Secret Santa game. Someone called the scarf green, but it was actually light turquoise. She had conversed with Ms, Cortlandt about a gift for her father. She had even sung the melody four times for the Christmas carol "Jingle Bells.'

One task, however, had still not been accomplished. Something inside of her would never feel right until she had fulfilled her own tradition. Usually, she could rely on the comfort of her room, where everything was in place, and where she could just do what the task compelled her to do. Sometimes she would hum. Other times she could feel stinging around her eyes.

Although she usually liked control, she found that during these times she could let the control go.

Lily removed the small figurine from her briefcase. She placed it carefully on top of her desk and counted the tiny people. Seven to be precise. Some of the people had their hands stretched. Other people had their arms around another person. Lily was especially fascinated with those people. She could never distinguish their eyes or mouths . The eyes and the mouth were main features that she had been taught to study in her life skills classes. Somehow, though, she did not need those features to know that the miniature figures were happy.

Joyous.

"May I?"

The voice did not startle her. Pete was still standing in the doorway when she looked up. He blinked a lot when she saw him. Usually, this motion was said to indicate nervousness, but she did not know why Pete would be nervous.

She thought for a moment before picking the carousel up and extending it to him.

He stepped into the office and smiled. Now he looked more like Pete.

"I was actually requesting permission to come into the room, but I have always loved a good music box. Thank you."

He twisted the silver key and the small people began to twirl around in their wreath-adorned cups. The Christmas carol 'Joy to the World' accompanied their ride. Christmas carol was not accurate, though, because the song was written in 1719 as a hymn.

When Pete smiled big, his eyes got big too, and he resembled a little boy. He began humming in a key that did not sound pleasant. Lily had never shared her Christmas ritual with anyone before, and an unexpected reaction occurred. She laughed. She did not often laugh. It was…different.

When he looked up, she covered her mouth.

He had not stopped smiling. "This is really cool…I mean really nice. Was it a gift?"

Lily nodded. "My mother gave it to me 18 years ago. She gave it to me before I could talk, and before she died."

"It still looks brand new."

"I keep it in a special place, and I only play it once a year. On this day. I do not remember very much about my mother, but playing this music always helps me remember."

Pete performed a curious action. He put the carousel down and both frowned and smiled. She could not identify the meaning behind that gesture. "I would buy my father a tie every year," he said. "They would always have these crazy designs, and I knew he would never wear them to the office. But when I would come to visit, every time, he would have one on. I still get him one every year. I know that probably sounds strange."

Lily only shook her head. "It makes you feel warm. I tried to ask my mother what the word joy meant one time. I could not make the words to ask her, but somehow she must have known. She told me that joy is what makes you feel warm inside. We should always find those things and keep them."

She did not like when Pete looked away, not only because she could not see his gestures. He was moving towards the door again. She did not want him to leave.

"I'm sorry for interrupting you," he said. "I just had to get away from the crowd for a while. These office Christmas parties are not really my cup….I don't really like them."

"I had the same thoughts, so maybe we could have them together. You can stay, if you want."

She wanted him to stay, because she could look at him instead of the floor. Only a few people made her want to look. To see.

He was smiling again, and he did not blink as much now. "I got you something. It's just something I think would be practical," he quickly added. His face was red, but it was a red she did not mind.

Pete put one of the cartoon presents on her desk. That was the name she always gave to the gifts that possessed a removable top but no wrapping paper. They seemed to only exist on television cartoons but Pete had found a real cartoon box. It was white and the ribbon was green. Neither were red, which she liked. She also liked that he remembered.

A box with a screen was inside of the box.

"It will reduce the clutter on your desk. See, you only need one frame now, but it can hold all of the pictures that you want."

She deduced from Pete's outburst of words that the box – the box with the screen, not the box with the ribbon – could show digital photographs.

He was right. The present was practical. And she could test it right now. When she removed her digital camera from her briefcase and clicked a photograph of Pete, he fortunately had not resumed his blinking yet. Now, however, he was blinking more than usual.

"What are you doing?" His cheeks were the red she liked again. "I mean, I know what you are doing, but why are you doing it?"

Pete puzzled her, but she liked trying to fit the pieces together. Lily had missed Pine Valley, but she had not missed answering questions that seemed to have an obvious answer. "Most individuals who use digital photograph frames display pictures of family members and friends. You are family in a way I cannot yet calculate …and you are also my friend. Your picture should therefore be in my frame, unless you do not want your picture in my frame."

"No, no…I mean yes." He was curving his lips again. He was a strange boy sometimes. "Yes, I would be honored to be included in your pictures. Thank you."

"You are welcome." This time, she could feel her own lips curving. It was a nice feeling.

Pete cleared his throat and looked at his watch. "The party is almost over. May I walk you out?" he asked.

She accepted his invitation, and after gathering her belongings, they prepared to leave….until her usual diligent observation yielded something that could not be ignored.

She frowned. Her mother had taught her the value of Christmas traditions, but this tradition presented a problem. Perhaps a compromise existed.

Quickly, before she could convince herself not to partake in the tradition, she placed two fingers to her lips and then just as quickly pressed her fingers to Pete's cheek. His cheek was warm even before it turned red again.

Before he could ask another silly question, she pointed up at the ceiling…at the mistletoe.

Pete's mouth was still open when a very grumpy Santa Claus – known on most days as Mr. Caleb Cortlandt – stomped through the hallway. His beard was detached from his chin and his hat was falling off of his head. And she did not think that Santa Claus wore those kind of boots.

She was going to offer a few helpful suggestions, but her boss only offered a "Bah Hambug to Christmas!" before stalking out the door.

Lily looked at Pete, whose mouth was now closed and curved into another smile.

She liked Christmas. It was…

Warm.

####

He woke to a jolly, plump little person clad in red and white and sporting a laugh that could make the world sit up and take notice.

Said jolly Santa, in the absence of an armful of presents, decided to give him just one gift instead. When his daughter threw her chubby arms around him and squealed "Dada," Frankie knew this particular gift was all he needed.

When Santa's tall but still-beaming elf leaned over and gifted him with the second best present of his morning, he knew that his Christmas dream might never end, and he was perfectly okay with that.

"Merry Christmas, baby," he whispered to one squirming little girl. "And baby," he added to her mother, gifting the one-of-a-kind woman beside him on the bed with a tender present of his own.

They parted with a mutually satisfactory "Mmm" and surveyed their daughter, who was in turn perfectly perched on Frankie's lap and surveying them curiously.

"You know, not many people could say that they've had Santa sitting on their lap. I'm a lucky guy."

"A lucky guy who takes a bit too much after his daughter," Randi mused, wiping at the corner of his mouth.

"I do not, nor will I ever, drool in my sleep," Frankie protested. "Unlike a certain someone who saws more logs than a lumberjack."

"Hey, a girl – especially one starting up the next major cosmetics juggernaut – has gotta get her beauty sleep."

"Well, I can't argue that you look beautiful sawing those logs. And I see that our daughter takes a bit too much after her mother."

Frankie motioned to the foot of the bed where Angie was, in fact, already tucked in a small ball again, sawing her own little log as they spoke.

With each soft snore, a dimple flared. She had the best Christmas angel of all watching over her. Frankie smiled at the thought.

His hand sought out his wife's, as it tended to do. He was surprised when a small box was slipped into his grasp instead. When he cocked an eye at Randi, she had a too-tentative smile.

Frankie held the package up to his ear. Hoping to lighten the increasing uncertainty that was passing over his wife's face, he shook the box, but the action gave nothing away. "Am I safe in assuming this isn't of the 'keep on ticking' variety?"

She took his hand and brought it, and the box, between them. Her thumb rubbed the magic spot between his thumb and finger, and he immediately relaxed.

"I love you," she said. "And I want you to be happy."

Leaning back, he lifted the box's lid and removed the roll of paper tucked inside. He scanned the contents and his eyes fastened on the small attached features so much like his own. They blurred, and kept blurring, despite his best efforts.

Until one touch made everything clear.

"I…I hired an investigator. This is what he found. And - if you want - he says we might be able to make contact with the adoptive parents."

Frankie leaned forward and let his fingers slide through the coarsest, and softest, hair he'd ever felt.

"Thank you" was all he could manage.

Pulling her towards him and brushing his lips against her temple, he showed her again how thankful he was.

#

They'd trimmed the tree the day after Thanksgiving because, in the Hubbard family, Christmas was lucky if it could escape being called for duty before Halloween. The wicked witch and Santa weren't just longtime adversaries in the retail aisles.

One ornament, however, always waited until the big day. Frankie took Angie's hand, and, for once, the overeager little fingers quieted. Stilled.

They helped give the crystal keepsake guardian angel flight on this Christmas morning.

"It's beautiful," Randi said.

Gazing at his wife, Frankie could attest that their decoration was not the only beautiful figure adorning the living room. Just as he was about to make this observation known, the bell sounded.

He'd like to think it was a little nod to their own angel getting her wings. But he already knew the identity of their guest. He only hoped that his own attempts at working Christmas magic had succeeded.

She opened the door and Frankie was a profile, a shadow to the young man filling the doorway…and his wife's transformed little-girl eyes.

Funny, he'd always made fun of those slow-motion movie montages. Mom had been a sucker for them, not him. He got it now though, because damned if the world wasn't trudging frame by frame. He'd never been much for details either, but now every carefully ironed petal in the wallpaper, every light sliver slicing those carefully placed crystals, each was a co-star, but never a scene-stealer.

Randi stood, feet frozen, eyes shining with unspoken need. A few feet away, similar eyes caught and averted glimpses.

Frankie watched his wife finally make footfall again, mingling and morphing with that shy, bouncing girl she must have once been. He watched her trace slight, familiar paths along a suddenly younger face. He watched fingers tremble in accord with the slightly shaking chin they covered. He watched hesitation, rules, and regulations wash away. He watched the world slow, framing its snapshot. He and Angie watched: the intruders. He eavesdropped upon the silence that somehow spoke great speeches, but he did not attempt to decipher the soft static designed for two.

In that static, Frankie wondered if he had made a mistake. When Reggie stepped forward and enveloped his sister in a fierce hug, Frankie quietly slipped from the room with his daughter, certain that he had made one of the best decisions of his life.


	14. Chapter 14

It's been an interesting year, with the usual ups and downs…both in real life and in reel life. I want to thank everyone who has read and shown interest in this story, and there are still plenty of twists left to come.

Cybertoast to a happy new year for all!

####

"And yesterday, when I looked at him, he looked away real quick, like…"

"Like he'd been caught watching you and maybe got embarrassed?"

The girl's blush could not hide her emerging smile. "Well….yeah. So what should I do?"

She considered all of the tricks she might have tried at the girl's age. Dropping something in front of the boy so he, of course, would be obliged to pick it up. Complementing him on his not-so-fascinating new toy. Or, her personal favorite: playing hard to get. Erica smiled down at the girl on her lap, considered the words of the wisest woman she ever knew, and said: "Just talk to him, sweetie. Get to know him, and be yourself. That's the most important thing: just be you, and the rest will fall into place. I promise you."

That priceless beam let Erica know that her response was the right one.

_Maybe this hard head did let a little something through on occasion, Mom_.

The girl scanned her surroundings apprehensively before motioning for Erica to lean closer. When she did, a barely uttered question brought a full grin to Erica's face.

"Do you think he'll…kiss me?"

That wasn't exactly the question she'd anticipated but, then again, this young girl had managed to surprise and charm her since the first moment they'd met in the oncology ward. Alison had spent so much time worrying about being different, about fitting in. One of the few joyous moments of the past year had occurred the day Erica had returned to the hospital for the first time since foregoing the fancy wigs. Ali had been the first to greet her. She'd been touched when the girl found the courage to remove her own hairpiece. Since then, they'd been the Shiny Head duo.

"I…I want to kiss a boy before …"

That tiny, trailing statement jolted her from her thoughts and brought an instant response. She massaged the smooth skin atop Alison's head. "You'll have plenty of chances for that, honey. In addition to going on dates, showing that silly Ms. Landon just how smart you are, graduating and finding a wonderful career, and getting married."

_Hopefully just once on the latter_, she silently added with a bemused smile.

"And I expect to have a front row seat for it all. Do you understand me, young lady?"

It was not a question, but an affirmation….for herself and for the little girl cuddling against her chest.

Just as the girl nodded, another pint-sized force of nature launched herself into Erica's lap.

"Gran –" Miranda abruptly stopped herself. For the life of her, Erica could not understand why these little ones were still so hesitant in calling her by her name.

She looked between the two little girls, each occupying a leg. She addressed Ali, who was still staring at Miranda with unabashed curiosity. "Alison, I would like you to meet my granddaughter, Miranda."

Erica admittedly held her breath. Although she loved Miranda more than anything, she knew her granddaughter well enough to know that she didn't exactly always play well with others. The girl had a bit of an aura – that Erica also recognized too well – that could be…off-putting.

Her fears, in this case, were in vain. Miranda instantly stuck her hand out, half-proper lady and half-bouncing little girl. "Pleased to meet you."

After a moment, Ali smiled. It was not tense or strained. It was the smile of the happy little girl that Erica had come to love. "Hi," she said, taking Miranda's hand.

"And this –" Erica said, tilting her head toward the other new arrivals, "is my granddaughter Gabby and her mom, my daughter Bianca."

Bianca led her daughter by the hand until they were beside the trio. "Hello, Alison," she said warmly. "It's very nice for Gabby and I to meet you."

Then, both mother and daughter – the latter's shyness temporarily forgotten - gave Erica a two-for-one special hug that would remain one of the best Christmas presents she'd received this year. Before she knew it, her lap was suddenly free as three small bodies hurtled towards the play area. Ali was giving her new friends the insider's tour of the large hospital waiting area.

Erica looked over to her daughter, who was watching her own daughters, arms crossed, with exactly the look she was likely sporting right now. "How was Paris?" she asked.

"Good," Bianca said. "I'm glad we decided to stay the extra time. They really needed the time away, and truthfully…"

It seemed her daughter had picked up a trailing-off habit from a certain little girl, but Erica only smiled. "You could, too?" she guessed.

Bianca rubbed her arms and glanced sideways at her mother. "Please don't misunderstand me. No matter where I've been physically, this has always and will always be my home. I missed you, I missed Kendall and the boys, and I'm glad we got back for Christmas. And there are a few gifts waiting for you , by the way."

Erica nodded, suppressing a grin as her daughter paused long enough for one breath.

"It's just that, life here can be a little overwhelming sometimes."

"I think that's quite an understatement, sweetie, and I do understand. More than you know."

"You mean the great Erica Kane is actually capable of being overwhelmed?" Bianca asked in mock horror.

When the two shared a laugh, Bianca tucked a strand of hair behind her ear. Her daughter was not the dramatic hair-flipping type, but Erica knew that particular gesture almost as well as the small lip bite her daughter would soon undertake. She was relieved that at least some things about her daughter were a constant. Since the surgery, she was admittedly relieved to see the kind heart she had come to admire so much not just as a mother but as a woman peek through.

"How was Reese?" Erica thought about holding back on the question she really wanted to ask, but the past few months she had decided to try a new approach not always honored so well in the past: honesty. "Did she pressure you, honey?"

She had managed to ascertain from what little Kendall seemed to know about her sister's life lately that her daughter's ex-wife was eyeing a reconciliation.

Bianca had traded rubbing her own arms for rubbing the arms of the wheelchair. "She didn't pressure me. She was honest, and I was honest in return. I told her that it wasn't happening. Her. Love. It's over."

Erica had also learned the art of dialing back. She knew that her daughter would say no more, but it didn't stop her heart from breaking a little at the jaded and generalized nature of the final words in Bianca's statement.

She only offered a soft repetiton of her new mantra: "Don't give up."

Bianca nodded just as softly. "How…how are things going now?"

Erica didn't need elaboration. She was going to take her own advice and focus on the positive. "I'm still having my treatments. I won't pretend like they're the most exhilarating experiences in the world, but I think - I know they're helping. I may not have heard the word I want to hear yet - remission - but I'll just keep going until I do."

"You won't give up," Bianca said with a smile. "Just like you're teaching these kids not to give up, without ever saying a word. I really admire what you're doing for them, Mom."

Erica shook her head as their spirited trio approached again. "It's not what I'm doing for them, sweetie. It's what they do for me every day."

"Mom, Ali asked me to be an angel for the play," Miranda said breathlessly. "Can I? It starts in a few minutes."

Bianca looked over to her mother, who provided a head tilt of encouragement. "Sure, Mimo. Just remember to -"

"Behave myself. I know," Miranda said with exasperation, an unspoken _Don't I always?_ evident in her tone. Before rushing off again, she skipped over and gave her mother a kiss on the cheek. "Thanks, Mom."

Gabby settled onto Bianca's lap as the two joined the other children to begin their preparations.

"What about you, honey? Would you like to be an angel, too?" Erica asked.

Gabby simply shook her head and settled further into her mother.

"This angel's not one for the spotlight," Bianca whispered.

_Like grandmother, like mother, like daughter_.

Fifteen minutes later, the partial collection of Kane women were enjoying the performance of the best Mary – and the best angel, of course – any of them had ever seen.

####

This was a first.

"You actually knocked. I suppose I should be grateful for that small bit of decorum."

Typically, visits to this household consisted of some loud-mouthed charlatan barging in and making monkeys of his crackpot security team or breaking in by….other means. He'd had the latter problem taken care of, however. He only wished he had taken the initiative sooner.

"And you actually answered your own door," his visitor observed. "I guess that bit of decorum should impress me."

Adam sighed, leaning against said door. "What do you want, Lavery? "I don't see a caroling choir behind you, and please, please don't say you're my Ghost of Christmas Past. I'd be really disappointed, as I was expecting someone I could actually stand the sight of."

Ryan grinned. "Doesn't leave too many people, does it?" He turned serious, or at least as 'serious' as that perpetually gape-mouthed stare was capable. "I'd like to talk to you."

It was Adam's turn to grin. "Better luck next time, boy. I don't have any wives for you to cavort with just yet. Check back in, oh, next to never."

The _boy_ placed his foot between the door and Adam's not-so-well-placed attempts at slamming it.

"I wouldn't underestimate the old man. Remember where I grew up. I can still knock you flat on your pretty-boy a-"

"It's about Colby, Adam."

That should have been it.

That should have been his impetus to make good on his threat and pound Lavery until the only things that would recognize him were the vultures on the side of the road. But as he raised his hand, it betrayed him and motioned for his visitor to come inside.

When he opened his mouth to alternately shame Lavery and tell him to go to Hell, those traitorous lips instead muttered, "You have five minutes."

####

"We heard that large crash, and we knew it was either your vase or my lamp. I know how you always hated that thing….said I was like the dad in that Christmas movie with his leg-o-lamp, so while I was already plotting to take away Tad's allowance until the next Christmas, you were thinking of giving him a bonus. And then, _then_ we go through that kitchen door, plans in hand, only to find Joey standing over the broken coffee table. That poor boy looked like his pet had just died, so we didn't have the heart…"

She squeezed his knee.

"See, I know what that means, 'Yes, I remember…I love you….and -'"

"You're talking too much."

The Irish brogue brought him from his reminiscence, and he turned to its source.

A portly gentleman with a perennial smile tipped his hat.

"How did you know?.." Joe rose from his place beside his wife. She was still smiling down at him, oblivious to their new arrival. "Are you one of the other patients?"

He had seen them on occasion, mostly roaming the halls: individuals stuck in much the same limbo as himself. Once he returned - if he returned - he would have quite the write-up for his next medical journal. But the others, none had ever attempted to communicate with him, and they usually appeared more…distressed. This fellow, his knowing smile remained.

"I have been around a while. As to your first question, you will find that I am quite observant."

Joe believed it. The stranger's pale, clear eyes: they seemed to see nothing and everything. He felt at ease with the man for reasons he couldn't quite pinpoint. "That's our all-purpose signal, the knee thing," he said, turning back to Ruth and pointing to his wife's outstretched hand. "It's her reminder that sometimes we don't have to say anything to know what's needed."

"A wise woman," the man remarked.

For the first time, he noticed the stranger' s collar. "I am sorry, Father. Please forgive my manners."

The man, in his previous life, must have become accustomed to individuals rambling, but perhaps now he needed a friendly ear himself. They had no one else at the moment, after all.

"If you would like to talk, Father, about the circumstances that brought you to the hospital…"

The man didn't move about the room, but his gaze still absorbed all. "I would much rather hear about your lovely family."

The protest on Joe's lips faded away, replaced by a smile. "I'm sure you have observed enough to ascertain that this lovely creature is my wife, Ruth. And that hodge-podge of wonderful humanity over there –" he motioned to the gaggle of laughing Santas and elves – "consists of my children and their family." He paused long enough to acknowledge the two cards set beside the eggnog and the red Rudolph nose: part of his required annual Christmas wardrobe. "All of my family couldn't be here today. Tara visited earlier this month, but she had to get back home….to her job and her new fiancé. And Bobby, well, he's doing his best to keep his skiing business afloat, but he sent his love through this beautiful letter. Ruth reads part of it to me nearly every night."

"You worry about them."

The stranger's eyes were trained on the group engaged in a spirited game of hot potato football: the Christmas tradition his family was thankfully determined not to abandon. Joe wanted nothing more than to assume his usual role as the caller: the guardsman. He sat on the edge of the bed, just inches away from his giggling youngest granddaughter, who was currently one of four hangers-on. He reached out and stroked her hair, a phantom's touch.

"It's part of the job description," he said. "Tad, my boy, he's trying so hard to fill the gap. There's so much love in their family, but so much…left unsaid." He watched as his son, Santa minus the beard, threw the bag to the room's other Santa, who winked at his Mrs. Santa. "And Joey - Jake - he just told me how he and Amanda were going to Africa to meet their new daughter: my new granddaughter. It makes me still believe in life, in hope. And maybe it's selfish, but I want to be a part of that."

"The only thing stopping you, Joe Martin, is you. Your wife is wise, so heed her words. You have what you need.."

"How did you know my –"

The area of his bed opposite his wife was now vacant.

"Name," Joe muttered.

"Face it, baby Martin, you're going to –" Joe turned in time to see Tad's trademark smirk plastered all over his face, ready for the next launch.

"Stop!" Joe called out the command on cue. If he were the ref, that would've taught his eldest boy –

Seven suddenly wide mouths in a haphazard semicircle might usually signal a Christmas carol. but silence had replaced the spirited bantereing. Puzzled, he turned back toward Ruth. Except, he didn't need to turn back. Even through the sudden fog, he could see her bright smile in full view.

Right beside him, where she had always been.

"Wh –" His voice had suddenly diminished and, he could taste sour - he could taste!

He tried to lift his arm, but it tingled and ached.

It felt.

"Sh, sh, don't talk, hon." And a pair of the sweetest lips he would ever know – God how he had missed them – ensured that he, for once, did shut up.

With seven bodies rapidly progressing toward him, Joe was also sure that he couldn't wait to be this Christmas football game's tackle dummy.

####

He poured with an unsteady hand, but he never got the opportunity to offer his guest or himself a much-needed distraction.

Ryan grabbed his hand, and to Adam's surprise he didn't protest or yank his arm back. He just relinquished his tense grip on the sifter.

"I was there," Ryan said, as if it explained anything and everything. His gaze was intense but…

Adam could not look away. "We were all there." The words did not hold nearly as much sarcasm or conviction as he would have liked.

"I had pushed Greenlee to the floor."

Of course, ever the noble hero.

"But I…I looked up. And it was mostly chaos. Blurs. Half of it I don't even remember. "

Ryan took a breath, and Adam released the one he had been holding for dear life. Somehow, they managed a kind of harmony.

"I saw her. Her eyes. This one pinpoint of clarity. She…there were no words."

The quiet. The damning silence.

"But she still spoke, if that makes any sense."

Too much.

"I don't think she really knew what was happening around her, if that brings you some measure of comfort."

It never could, and it did.

"But before, right before -"

"Please, stop." Adam wanted to eliminate the frail old man who had dared make his presence known, until he realized the weak, insipid voice belonged to himself. Perhaps then he wanted it even more.

"I can't," Ryan whispered. He, too, was captive to something unseen but never far away. "I can chase it away during the day with work and family, but nights….nights, God." He ran both hands through his hair before pointing vehemently at his head. "She's still in here, every night. Her eyes. I think…I think I finally get it. She needs me to tell you."

"Tell me what?" Those traitor lips compelled him again, compelled him to ask for the answer he never wanted….the one he needed more than his next breath.

"When you watch the life drain from somebody, maybe a part of you is hoping for some grand revelation – to make sense out of the senseless. It's not like that, though. Not even close. I still have just as many questions as I had that night, and maybe I'll spend the rest of my life searching for a suitable answer. It might ultimately be a fool's quest, but then again, maybe –"

"I don't need to hear about you finding the light, Lavery. Please, just…"

"What I saw was a million minutes condensed to one. I think in part its true, what they say. You experience everything again. You feel your life fully and one hundred percent one final time before it fades. Anger, sadness, fear, innocence: it was all there. She felt it all."

If Lavery was trying to get one last laugh and one final ounce of vengeance on him, he was more than exceeding his goal.

"Do you want to know the last thing I saw before her eyes closed?"

Adam's chest tightened painfully. He only nodded, because he had long ago given up the pretense of pretending he could put up a defense.

"She smiled, not with her mouth, but with something deeper inside. I think…I think she wanted you to know that it mattered. Her. You. Her time. Your time together. It all mattered."

The silence had settled again. This time, however, he didn't fear it.

Finally, Ryan rose from the sofa. "That's what I wanted to tell you, Adam." He glanced at the clock on the mantel, and his gaze lingered for just a moment. "I'm sorry it took longer than five minutes," he added with a lightness uncharacteristic of any of their previous encounters.

This time, Adam stopped the exit. "Why…" He cleared his throat but, try as he might, the sharpness would not come. "Why me?"

Ryan wrapped his scarf and gave one final appraisal of the mantel. "Because you need it, Adam. Especially today."

As Ryan turned to leave, Adam turned – compelled – to the mantel.

The most beautiful smile he had ever known greeted him.

His chest unclenched, and he smiled back at his daughter. Not fully, not perfectly. But good enough.

It mattered.

####

Erica handed Bianca the tree's next angel.

"I thought you might want to hang this one," she said.

Her daughter's chin trembled, and she reached out and stilled it, caressing away a lone tear that had settled.

Bianca placed the crystal figurine bearing Marissa's name with the other angels, each named for an individual who had passed.

Many of the smaller angels had recently been patients in this hospital. Their friends stood in a tight and secure circle around the tree, each sending a silent message to a special someone. The collection of tiny smiles showed that those messages were being returned, perhaps not in words, but in more lasting ways.

The group clustered closer and stood in wide-eyed awe when a figure clad in red and clutching a full sack came bounding through the hall. Their innocent expressions could not match Erica's astonishment, however, as she recognized the gruff voice and the silver hair behind that 'ho, ho, ho' and white beard.

Stuart Chandler, she could believe. Maybe that's the identity this misbegotten Santa would even claim if pressed. But Erica would know that mischievous eye twinkle anywhere. When "Santa" caught her eye, Erica winked at her ex-husband.

While the kids busied themselves with opening their presents, Erica approached Adam and handed him the final two ornaments. When he gazed down at their names, he started and stood silent for a long moment. Finally, he looked back up. With a slight mist in his eyes, he mouthed a 'Thank you' before securing Scott and Colby's place among the angels.

After the gift-giving had concluded, they all gathered once more around the tree for a song. A slight commotion sounded from the other side of the trunk. Curious, Erica glanced over as the children separated, making way for a new entrant. Her throat clenched, refusing admittance to her rapidly rising heart.

Tired, weak, but with one of the strongest voices she ever heard, Joe Martin joined in for the final soaring note of "Oh Holy Night."

Behind him, a man she had never met in her life – a man she recognized nonetheless – stood in the corridor. He was watching them.

_No, watching over us_, Erica thought before dismissing the utterance from her mind.

Each of the tree's angels now shone with a bright light. Funny, that feature hadn't been in the decorations' specifications. Witnessing the shining faces surrounding her, she realized the small mystery didn't matter.

She wanted to share this insight with the stranger, but the corridor was now empty.

The familiar stranger would never really be gone, though. That, Erica knew as surely as she knew the power of the Christmas spirit…and the human spirit it encompassed.


	15. Chapter 15

I hope you all had an awesome beginning for 2013. Methinks the year is gonna to be a little – or perhaps a lot - chaotic for the PVites…but ultimately hopeful.

####

_(2006)_

"The man with the lime green hatchback and the 10.99 haircut. That's not you. And I think we both know it never will be."

The small bottle chilled his palm. He could blame the start of the tradition on Natalia, who was always fascinated with the champagne cola substitute for the 'grown-up' drink. The plastic flutes and the streamers were his extra touch.

"This is for you, us, for –"

"Don't say this is for Natalia." Rebecca swiped at the paper bag. "She's a grown woman now, probably out sneaking a few sips of real champagne at some frat party. You know what that means, Jesse? We can't hide behind her anymore."

He took a breath and bit the inside of his cheek, because he could feel him rising: that guy, that guy stuck in survivor mode who didn't have time for niceties or pretty words. The one who lived by - if not the honor code then at least the honesty code - and to hell with the consequences. "This was…no, this _is_ our tradition. Our family tradition, and the last time I checked, we were still a family."

"And what does that word mean to you? Family? What's your definition? Does it include a long-term bond? An obligation?" She took the bag and twisted it slowly, absently. "Does it include love?"

"I do love—"

"Consummate love. That's one of the words they teach you in those psych classes you take for medical school. Three parts: three ideal components." She lifted a finger. "Commitment." Looking up at him, she raised a second. "Emotional intimacy." The third finger lifted halfway before her hand curled into a relaxed fist. "The third? Passion…that all-consuming, intangible…something."

He rushed forward and pressed her against the counter. When his lips in turned pressed angry, determined trails down her throat, she groaned and he could feel…feel the moment when she gave in – and the moment when she gave it all back.

Jesse pulled away, breathless, with an equally frustrated groan. She wouldn't…

Wouldn't…

"If this is about where I was before–" His voice was strained, muffled against her shoulder.

There was aching softness against the back of his head. Always the caretaker. "I understand. But you need to understand, too. I think a part of you already does. I can't be the stand-in, the substitute. It's not fair to me…to us."

This time he pulled back fully, taking her beautiful face in his hands. They could make this work. They could.

"Give it some time?" he said. "I'll do better, I promise." He couldn't lose anymore. She'd given him stability, security. She did deserve better.

"It's not about –"

"Just some time, okay? If you still feel this way after that time, I'll understand."

Even as he saw the internal struggle settled – pushed away – in her eyes as she quietly nodded, even as she uncorked the bottle and turned the television on just as the ball dropped, even as he kissed her lightly, that brash guy inside was kicking his feet back and calling Jesse a fool.

A liar.

- _(2007)_

He sat on the park bench at exactly 10:55. With the time difference, it would be midnight for them soon. He was always faithfully back by midnight to ring in the new year with his family, but part of him had held onto that sliver of guilt for his secret New Year's ritual. But Rebecca knew now, and she supported him.

Jesse no longer feared the dark shadows, something else he owed to her. As with every year, he filled those shadows with laughter, with color, and with the possibilities.

He took out his extra purchase: the pen and pad. Despite his messy handwriting, the message still somehow managed to find its way. It was consistent, simple: his only resolution and wish.

_Be Happy_.

At 10:59, he folded the paper – to the precise specifications of a small boy he once knew - and began his silent countdown. At the stroke of 11, Jesse sent his message for Angela and Frankie flying into the illuminated shadows.

"Happy New Year," he said softly.

The brightest illumination came courtesy of his new Christmas gift. Punching buttons on the phone, he struggled to read his first – and last – text message from Rebecca.

"Happy New Year, Jesse. Go find them."

- _(Present)_

Jesse searched underneath the rock, pulling at chunks of grass and weeds. When his thumb finally brushed against glass, he smiled. After freeing the bottle from its makeshift hiding place, he pulled out two slips of paper, one still shaped in the rough outline of a paper airplane. Unfolding that paper, the smile became a full-out grin. "New Year Revolushon 1986: Eat a worm."

"That's my boy," Jesse whispered.

His hand smoothed out the creases from the yellowed paper tucked neatly in the bottom of the bottle. The vastly different writing approaches somehow harmonized together for the two-word vow: "Be happy."

Their time capsule had survived. Time had that way about it, just as history had a bothersome habit of repeating itself.

The dull light was the same.

The phone was the same.

The message, the same: _Happy New Year, Jesse_.

Its meaning, however, was decidedly different.

This time, he couldn't outpace the ever-lengthening shadows.

_Shall old aquaintances never be forgotten_.

#### _(September, 2011)_

His eyes were so raw.

And the funny thing, the damn hilarious thing was how he welcomed the scraping burn. It was infinitely better, infinitely preferable to the dull ache that had taken over the rest of his body as they led him into each room.

It had…it had started with Marissa, because _he_ insisted. If he was gonna play the role of their self-made miracle man one final time, his daughter was damn sure gonna get first privileges.

God, she was so cold and he wanted for once to be that guy – that dad that tucked his little girl in and kept her safe…warm. His first and last chance. He was good, so good at the wanting, not so good at the fulfilling.

But he didn't need to feel the chilled cold. He didn't need to see her pale skin. He didn't need his fancy cutting-edge equipment. He knew.

He knew that once again, all his pomp and bluster and superiority wouldn't, couldn't amount to anything when it mattered most. The dull throb in his still-unbandaged, still-bleeding arm grew numb.

When he closed the door, that's when the ache began.

When he left the last room – the last stop for his young wonder-boy protégé – something else numbed.

And now, here they were again: the adversaries turned somewhat reluctant - maybe not friends, but maybe…something. This time, his eyes begged for relief and his voice begged for…what?

The words were hoarse, cracked, not carefully sheened with the smooth confidence. "You. It always comes down to you, Dr. Hubbard."

He allowed himself one stumbling step, one touch, one final -

She touched him.

And he really was.

For once in his life, David Hayward really was prepared to walk out of a room approach other people, and actually arrive at something approximating the truth.

But Angie Hubbard, competent doctor, amazing family woman, all-around Saint of All Things Good, led him willingly back to the dark – to his domain – with one simple word: "Don't."

- _(Present)_

David turned on the television and let that ear-piercing waxed-up Ryan Lavery clone's voice fill the room. Quiet desperation was a necessity for any new year's celebration and he hoped, on some level, the promise of a new start, a fresh slate, might bring her back.

Observing the trickles of sweat, he soaked a washcloth in cool water and draped it over her forehead. The medical genius reduced to Home Remedies 101.

Angie was stirring and muttering unintelligible strings of syllables.

He leaned closer.

Good, her fever was breaking and the induced coma might have actually –

"Happyyear."

He smiled as the unintelligible gained some intelligence.

His smile was abruptly cut off by a very sudden – and very enthusiastic – New Year's kiss.

####

She was giving her phone a sound and thorough thrashing, and damn did she ever look good doing it. He could just picture that little line right down the middle of her forehead now. It was probably –

He tried to distract himself from that thought by reminding himself that he was playing this year's incarnation of the Pine Valley Lurker and essentially stalking his wi – his ex-wife on New Year's Eve. Better yet, he was performing this little feat in precisely the location that would make said distraction pretty much impossible.

"Damn it, Ryan. How am I supposed to find you now?"

She had been fumbling with something in her purse, but she suddenly dispensed with her little tirade.

It was always so dark around here –at least in some ways - so he couldn't see much past the back of her white coat. He could chance moving just a little bit closer; hell, he'd already chanced enough already, what was a little more? But something about that self-embrace he knew so well told him the source of her contemplation.

It wasn't exactly like the boathouse was one of Pine Valley's top tourist attractions. It wasn't much to look at really, save a bunch of boats that looked like they'd be lucky to make it ten feet into the water. But that…

That was _their_ spot…

- _(2002)_

_This isn't about parents or even my dreams because I never pictured the groom. And you're what matters. When I fell in love with you, I fell in love with life. You make me laugh till I cry, and then when I'm crying, somehow you can make me laugh. You keep me on my toes and you make my life an adventure. So I'm looking forward to a lifetime of laughter and tears and the unexpected. And the love. And the man. I want a lifetime with you, Leo du Pres._

_You drove me crazy. But that only made me love you that much more. When we weren't together, I would go to bed at night missing that pain in the neck that only you can give me. And you know my family. I don't have to warn you about that…You're my real family…You did what no other woman on the planet could do - and believe me, a lot of them tried. You saved me. And if it weren't for you, I don't know where I'd be right now…I owe you my life. So that's my vow. I want to make your life as good as you've made mine. I love you, Greenlee Smythe. And my life is yours - forever._

- _(Present)_

"Forever," he muttered softly.

The affirmation was drowned by a collection of distant, disembodied voices as they began the inevitable countdown…

_Ten..._

She turned toward the voices, toward him.

_Nine…_

And grabbed her head.

_Eight…_

She wobbled, swayed over the water, and he froze….

_Seven…_

The fall began in slow-motion…

_Six..._

His legs unlocked, defied the gravity…

_Five…_

Ten years, a gap closed by one touch...

_Four…_

This time, he wouldn't let go...

_Three_…

Their eyes locked. Hers still held the world's fire…

_Two…_

"Leo…" And her voice still drove him absolutely, mind-bendingly crazy.

_One…_

He pulled her into his arms, never letting go.

####

_Note_: The 2002 dialogue is part of the actual wedding vows from when Leo and Greenlee got married at the boathouse. So, credit goes to…whichever writers wrote that scene : )


	16. Chapter 16

It looks like its actually gonna happen this time! With Prospect Park making things official this past week, we could actually be seeing new episodes of AMC (and OLTL) in just a few months. Thanks to PP for apparently never giving up on getting this done. This really is an opportunity for these shows to be trail-blazers once again. Let's hope for the best.

I took a bit of a different approach with this chapter. Hopefully it translates well...and forewarned, there's another twist ending coming. Sorry, can't seem to resist those : )

####

He hides.

They play that game a lot. Hockett can't get enough. He tip-toes - never runs, just in case - peeking around every corner. He's even looked in the oven a couple times. Ryan would always watch him from his 'hiding place': an obvious nook to most people, probably, but not to him. Not to them. He would roll his eyes, but...he loved it too. Ryan saw his brother like that - laughter personified - and it felt real. Right. It didn't matter they weren't swimming in Fisher Price. It didn't matter they wore the same clothes they'd worn the last four games.

It didn't matter.

So he hides that day better than he ever has. He hides, and he makes friends with the dust bunny setting up a home on his foot. Dad does't see him. Neither of them do.

And Ryan pretends he doesn't hear.

_I'm sorry_.

Pretends.

He looks, just a peek, over the edge.

The can is shattered all over those puke-green tiles. He doesn't know a can could shatter, but it does, with enough encouragement. The brown foam rushes up…more, more. Like some endless pit.

The veins pulse around Dad's knuckles. They tighten. Harden. Take over.

Ryan pets the dust bunny. It goes. He asks the bunny to come back. Real nice, real soft, again and again. Like a good boy. It leaves anyway.

He pretends the other smash is just a pot falling over. Clumsy boy.

_Daddy, please_.

Pretends.

The tiny moans, barely there – they're just sounds from a zoo on the TV.

_Clean it up_.

Pretends.

_No, no, no_.

He hides. Waits for Hockett to throw up his hands and say 'Surprise, I found you,' so they can laugh like tomorrow doesn't exist. But he won't come.

Ryan gives his position away. His brother always hates that.

He's crawling. Toward Ryan. Hockett's pajamas are so sticky. He'll have to get the detergent.

Holding his stomach, too. Maybe he's got a stomach-ache. Reaching, so small and he's always reaching, even when Ryan's not there.

Ryan knows how a pillow sounds, looks, after it's punched. After it's kicked. It gives just a trace: a few muted muffles. And then it's back in place. Normal. You'd never ever know, except when you feel it. It never feels the same.

He hid.

Never again.

#

Through the clouds, he barely makes out the small mass huddled against his knee.

"Don't leave, please."

Ryan wipes the water away before hunching, face-to-face with the wide-eyed boy whose tear-brimmed lids match.

"Hey now, Hockett." He sweeps a brown lock tickling his little brother's cheek. "Just because I'm leaving, it doesn't mean I'll ever leave you. I'll always be right here" - he places a palm across a toothless smile, across a heart – "watching those crazy cartoons, giving you these…" His fist rubs hair relentlessly, which draws out a short, sweet snicker he savors. "…I'll always be here."

"You got hurt right after I told Mama and Daddy about your new job." Jonathan's lip trembles; his voice quavers. "I didn't know, Ry. I didn't know it was supposed to be a secret. I'm sorry. All my fault. Please don't go. I'll be good, I promise."

Jonathan throws himself into Ryan's arms, shreds his big brother up a couple scratches more. He doesn't know if he has any blood left inside. His fingers ease, stroke Jonathan's hair. "None of this is your fault, Hockett. I know me and Daddy yelled at each other, but it has nothing to do with why I'm leaving. We got a little mad is all." All his effort, but he chokes on the words anyway.

"Then why?" comes the muffled reply against his shoulder.

"I need to go away for a bit. I'm getting to be an old man now, you know. Pretty soon you're gonna have to put me out to pasture." He winks. Hopes Jonathan will believe the lie.

"The cows might get mad." This observation brings another round of head-razzing. "You'll be back, right?" Shy, timid, never his brother.

"Of course." He tries to tell himself this isn't another lie. The trick doesn't work. "But it might be a while. You'll probably have forgotten all about me."

"Never ever, Ry." Jonathan meets his eyes direct, wide, and Ryan blinks fiercely. "I love you."

Ryan smiles. His last one for a while. He savors it. "Right back at you, Hockett I want you to promise me something." Jonathan fixes him with his solemnest, which only makes Ryan's lips widen more. "Erin, she might get lonesome. You, too. If that happens, I want you to gather up all the superpowers you've got, put on that cape" - he affixes the invisible garment around his brother's shoulders, perfect accessory to the crooked grin - "and dazzle her. Make her happy. Make each other happy. Can you do that?"

"I can try." Jonathan puffs his chest in true Dynamite Kiddo fashion. "Naw, I will."

Ryan pulls him back. He places a soft kiss on his brother's forehead, his smile never disappearing.

"You'll come back if I need you?"

He kisses Jonathan's forehead again, lingering…_wanting_ to mean every word: "In a heartbeat."

#

The tendrils of flames billow behind them, and crazily, all he can think of is Dynamite Kiddo, come to save the day from the evil dragon. That was the plan, anyway. Find the girl, save her from the evils of a coke-addled life on the streets, be the hero….for once, be the part rather than badly act the part. He could even give that con inside him that never really left the building his due. This was an assignment, after all. With grateful clients. And with grateful clients came grateful paychecks.

Another hero had seen fit to intrude on the proceedings, though. And that damsel in distress had somehow transformed into a small boy. And…and after what he'd seen, he wasn't so sure that the Justice League itself could fix this mess.

He could walk away. Call 911, walk away, and be done with it. That's what the 17-year-old with the duffle bag is screaming at him to do. The smooth con-man is giving him that whisper he knows too well at the same time: _It's not your problem. You gotta know when to cut and run_.

Ryan looks at the small building now engulfed in fire.

He looks back at the road: empty, deserted. Oh-so-inviting.

Shaking his head, he curses under his breath and trots toward Brot Monroe.

He doesn't look back.

#

His fingers tapped the keyboard furiously. Damnit.

The connection in here was less than ideal. But having a look at the gray slabs that passed for walls, he couldn't say that he hadn't gotten exactly what he paid for. A run-down warehouse wasn't the ideal office space, but he'd found that the deeper he immersed himself in this little town that had somehow grabbed him by the…throat over 15 years ago, the more swank cubicles and 9-to-5 hours weren't gonna fit the bill.

At least in this part of town, nobody was particularly inclined to ask questions. It was populated by more of the 'shoot first and ask questions later' types.

Ryan managed to salvage the hunk of junk hard drive long enough to call up his massive virtual file cabinet. He'd amassed quite a collection, and each folder was filled to the brim. He scanned past the names, many of them familiar. Too familiar. He'd deal with them all in time, because circumstances had taught him to take the emotion out of it. For their sake.

For his sake.

The cursor hovered over the largest file: a monster devouring more of his hard drive by the day. This one, for this one _in time _was today.

Now, actually.

His ears had been schooled in every sound from this neighborhood, and from this humble abode especially. Every creak from a mouse. Every whispered transaction. Every scream so faint you could almost convince yourself it was just a trick of the wind.

The hard, confident clicks, though….oh, they were something new. His guest had arrived.

With one chance for an explanation.

Ryan slid the flash drive from the computer and in turn slid it into a well-hidden hole. Its lone companion was the letter he had left for Greenlee. In case…

The next part took longer. Took time he didn't have as the clicks grew closer. Closing his eyes, he secured the gun in his waistband and covered the bulk with his slightly oversized shirt. The weight, the chill caused a brief flinch.

As he looked toward the door, the flinch – and the doubts – disappeared. Ryan, ever the proper host, went to greet his guest.

#

Princesses weren't supposed to wear jeans or use the wrong words. They were spoiled, indulgent. They weren't supposed to see past the smile and the lie. They weren't supposed to see the real guy.

And they assuredly were not supposed to fall in love with that guy.

And he...he was never supposed to fall in love period.

And it wasn't supposed to hurt so hard – or feel so good - when he crashed.

#

Six-pack.

That was supposed to be a complement…or a put-down. Probably both.

That was supposed to be the start of the game.

Nothing more.

They weren't supposed to change the rules.

Until they did.

#

She was that girl.

They were only supposed to work in rom-coms or horror flicks.

She was supposed to steal his wallet and maybe his clothes. She wasn't supposed to steal his heart.

He wasn't supposed to give her the key, or take it back so willingly.

#

Fathers were supposed to be hurt, disappointment. A curled fist and foul breath…fouler words.

A little girl and a little boy weren't supposed to undo him with just a smile.

Or so thoroughly, completely alter the definition of Dad.

#

It is New Year's and everything old is new again. The oil paintings, the far-flung ceilings, the carved staircases that make him feel like an intruder. And at home.

The music swells and his gaze moves - no, glides - to that staircase. The Crystal Ball without benefit of the crystals or the fancy clothes. Somehow, none of that matters.

She is here. Her hair isn't swept back and her gown rivals Cinderella's…after the ball.

Just her.

Just enough.

He holds out a hand that does not curl into a fist, flashes a smile that is not aimed at the next mark, and touches her with a hand – with a heart – free of its weights.

It attaches to an anchor.

This time, he doesn't say goodbye.

"May I have this dance, Princess?"

#

They…they sounded like the employees in the laundromat below his old apartment, but different.

There was shouting and exuberance and the whistle of streamers, but now….none of the hidden sadness, the unspoken certainty of another crushed resolution, another empty year.

There was only….hope.

_Three, Two, One…_

He'd thought the pain would stop him. He'd thought he couldn't move, but somehow, his hand reached one final time through the darkness, towards a far-away light.

Towards her.

She takes his hand and leads him away.

Not away.

To.

_To love is to risk not being loved in return. To hope is to risk pain. To try is to risk failure, but risk must be taken because the greatest hazard in life is to risk nothing._

He'd heard it somewhere before. As his eyes close, he knows its absolute truth.


	17. Chapter 17

Happy MLK Day to everyone who celebrates, and those who have the day off from work today, enjoy!

We're taking a breather from the New Year's events, but they'll be picked back up again...and soon.

The time frame for this chapter is a day or two after New Year's.

And off we go...

####

She should be concentrating on the pile of paperwork and the perfectly inflected voice – Eastern Spain, perhaps – that could create their biggest story in years.

But as Bianca shut down the file, abruptly silencing that voice in the process, and looked at her expectantly, Brooke only had one question: "How many laws did you break to get this?"

She could think of one, maybe two, if she really wanted to go there, right off the top of her head.

"It's…workable," her protégé replied simply.

"Inside source?" She had come to dread - and alternately respect, in a way – that lip purse.

"You could say that. And we both know I can't divulge my sources."

The reporter in her wanted to respect that answer Maybe even applaud it. But…

She must have lost the ability to make her face a blank slate, and it must have shown, because Bianca offered an even-toned but no less cutting observation.

A truth. "This could be the thing that puts this magazine back in people's minds. Back on the front of the newsstands. Would you rather turn over the cover story to Worley so we can all be treated to another enlightening commentary on the best bargain Christmas costumes for your pets?"

The unspoken _What's happened to you_? hung in the air.

It wasn't a question Brooke could easily answer. She remembered chasing down the lead, teaming up with Edmund and considering it a day wasted if she didn't receive – or become the target of – at least one death threat. Somewhere along the way, though, the captivating angles of sun rays had become more important. Passive appreciation was the order of the day. But she wasn't a poet. She was a reporter…no, a journalist. And a damn good one. Tempo _had_'been lagging for too long, likely stuck in the mire of her own inaction. She would've never guessed that hiring Bianca Montgomery would have gone such a long way toward changing that. But it had. And she needed to be the one who gave that final push. In the newsroom.

In other areas.

An image of Adam – the younger version with the silver hair and the devilish smile – flashed through her mind.

Brooke English was nobody's compass.

"Is this about Adam?"

The girl's instincts, even now, still amazed - and startled - Brooke.

"What?" she asked. The fewer the words, the less the self-incrimination.

"Are we having this little discussion on morality and ethics now because I've been called to testify at that…that _hearing_ later today? Are you afraid I'm going to get up there and bury him and his latest attempts to fashion a new mini-me?"

"No," she said immediately and honestly. Truthfully, Brooke herself was debating whether or not to attend the custody trial. It had been a source of tension not just earlier in the day, but for much longer. "What you choose to say at the hearing is your choice. I know Krystal sees you as both a character witness and as…Marissa's advocate."

Bianca lowered her head, lest those unreadable eyes slip and give away a word or two.

"Rest assured, Brooke, all I will do is tell the truth. _That_ is my choice."

"I know…I know how hard it must be to be reminded of that day. Of him. But the truth is, you never really forget, do you? Especially his eyes."

It was the one thing Reverend Eliot couldn't change. Could never change.

"I hate him," she said simply. Unflinchingly.

"I know." And she did, too well. The one truth nobody could snatch away. "You don't forget, but you can maybe forgive. Not for him."

"For me," Bianca supplied with just the slightest hint of acid. "Been there, done that, many times. All it gets you is an invitation for the next time. Signed, sealed, and delivered. _That_, I know."

Brooke was doing it again. She was breaking the rules. Losing objectivity. Trying to be that compass she hated so much. Taking _not_ her employee's hand, but the hand of the strong, lost girl she had known for so long. "All I could ever think was how those were the last pair of eyes she'd seen. Hooded, blurred from the alcohol, and….blank. I hated those eyes. They were the demon lights in the dark, the monsters under her bed. They were the sum of every bad thing. And even when they came with a collar and a kind smile, they were still the same. But there was another set of eyes. Equally kind, more innocent. More full of love than I could imagine. My one vow, since I first looked into them, was that I would always make those eyes shine. I would always make her proud."

Bianca looked up, and those unreadable eyes brimmed with tears….that book was laid bare. "I -"

Brooke never knew how a knock at the door could sound so loud, even when it was a quiet rap…so ear-splitting

Bianca turned away, in more ways than one.

Brooke sighed. "Come in."

And when her new hire walked in, she inwardly sighed again. She'd hoped to have more time to prepare Bianca, who was eyeing the arrival with unguarded weariness. She then turned her appraisal to Brooke.

Brooke cleared her throat while simultaneously rising from the desk. She held out her hand and assumed her best fake-enthusiastic tone. "I'm glad that you could make it in today. And it's perfect timing."

Or anything but.

She turned back to Bianca, that damn smile still plastered on her face. This time, she was bestowed with the eyebrow-raise. "Bianca, I would like you to meet Yasmin. She'll be joining our photography team. In fact, her first assignment will be with you."

The girl stepped forward, apparently unaware – or at least unmindful – of the lasers currently being aimed in her direction. Brooke had to admire her willingness to step into another minefield already.

"Im so glad to finally meet you. Re –"

"Really, Brooke?" Bianca ignored the hand being extended and instead pushed her way forward, past the flustered girl. Toward Brooke. "Aren't the newbies a better fit for _light features_? I know that's where I started. And hey, I hear there's a poodle beauty contest just down the road that could use a few good snaps."

"Bianca, that's enough," Brooke warned. Hoping it sounded more steely employer than scolding mother. She wouldn't apologize for hiring someone who had seen, and photographed, more in a few years than most _professionals_ could claim in a lifetime.

"No, Brooke, I actually don't think it's nearly enough. You don't think I see what this is? I don't need a babysitter."

"You need help, we all do. You can't do it alone anymore. And a fresh set of eyes -"

"Eyes again, huh? Did that whole spiel even mean anything, or was it just a way to soften me up for this?"

"It meant everything," Brooke said fiercely, all decorum gone.

"I will come back –"

"No!' they both snapped to the forgotten visitor. She held up her hands, seemingly unflapped. Brooke gave her another point.

"I'll be leaving," Bianca said. "I'm due in court, after all." Without turning, she added. "Pleased to meet you as well, Yancy. I hope you have a wonderful first day."

Before she wheeled out the door, Brooke offered her own parting. "The cover's a go, by the way."

She smiled at Bianca's prolonged pause, which significantly transformed her dramatic, forceful exit into a quiet roll.

Shaking her head, Brooke returned her attention to her photographer, who thankfully had not run screaming into the streets just yet. Given this town, however, she wasn't sure how much longer the girl could hold out.

"I am sorry for that. She can be a little…difficult, but ultimately she's –"

"The sweet sister that Reggie always raved about?"

Brooke knew a rhetorical question when she heard one. "You'll make a good team."

"I'm not worried," Yasmin said. With a smirk, she added, "And no, I won't be handing in my resignation by day's end."

This brought about the first genuine smile of the day. "Good to know." And likely the last. "Unfortunately, I have to leave as well. If we could –"

"Tomorrow?" Yasmin offered, returning the smile.

"Tomorrow."

With that, they said their goodbyes, leaving Brooke standing over the desk, deciding whether she should, in fact, leave. The destination wasn't exactly ideal.

Shuffling the papers and locking them up provided a few moments' distraction. Relief. The lone message on her answering machine, however, had a decidedly different effect.

"Brooke." She would know that voice anywhere. No one in the world could say her name (with the delicately balanced mixture of disdain, anger, condescension, and, sometimes, even a trace of begrudged affection) quite like Erica Kane. "We need to have a chat. It is long overdue. I will be at your office shortly." The silent _Clear your schedule _infused every word.

Brooke grabbed her purse. Suddenly, a trip to the courthouse seemed like a great idea.

####

She took the glasses off and rubbed her temples. The words, the questions: .they were too familiar, and they were beginning to blur – to clump together - under her intense gaze. The one thing Cara could never afford, especially in these cases, was cold, scientific indifference.

When her patient wheeled into the room for his test, cold indifference was the one thing she needed.

"Hello, Mr. Chandler," she offered, never moving from her spot beside the examination table. Aiming for that indifference, but not quite achieving it.

The guard helped him onto the examination table, if _help_ was indeed a proper description for the manhandling taking place. After her patient had been secured on the table with an unceremonious thud, the guard assumed his official stance in the corner, a slight smirk teasing his lips.

"That will be all, officer," she said, resettling her glasses and re-examining the now-clear clipboard.

"I have been instructed to -"

"I have been instructed – no, I have taken an oath – to honor my patient's right to privacy. Rest assured that I will summon you if needed." She raised her head just long enough to steadily look into a pair of eyes simmering with anger. "That will be all, officer."

Following a moment's stare-off that only one of them was going to win, the guard accepted his loss and stalked out the door. He expressed his displeasure in the grand tradition of scolded little boys: with an overly enthusiastic door-shut.

Cara turned back to find her patient sporting a barely-contained grin that immediately disappeared. "Thanks," he said.

"My job," she responded before quickly reassessing the clipboard. It wasn't for his benefit. Landon had given off a consistent, decidedly unpleasant vibe from the moment she'd met him her second day on the job. And she still had lingering suspicions about the degree of his involvement in JR Chandler's 'accident.' Suspicions she'd let go, for reasons she could not entirely say were altruistic.

"Happy holidays, by the way," he said. "I hope…"

The words trailed away, never found form, which was just as well. Neither one of them could pretend that they were typical doctor and patient making small talk.

Besides, she'd seen the 'celebrations' that took place here. All the same: dark, empty cells. Punctuated by the occasional butchered Christmas carols wrapped in between peals of humorless laughter.

"How are you feeling?" she asked. She already knew the answer.

"As well as I can be," he said. "I don't think…"

He couldn't seem to find the words, any words. But she understood.

"That's why you're here. So we don't have to think or guess. So we can know, and take it from there."

They dispensed with the normal formalities in awkward silence. She prepared the needle, willfully ignored the sudden tenseness in his jaw. She touched his cold skin, fought off the flinch, and told herself she was just examining a med school specimen. And she listened to a strong, steady heartbeat, not thinking…not marveling at the fact that it sounded just like everyone else's.

That it existed at all.

"When…" He cleared his throat, found the words. "When will we know if I'm out of remission?"

"A few weeks." She cleaned the equipment until her hands could find no more occupations. Only then did she fully look at him. Only then did she feel compelled to offer something. Anything. "We hope for the best, but it's okay to be scared."

"I think we both have the same idea of what 'the best' would be." And he went against doctor's advice, carefully admonishing every tiny tremble, carefully schooling every errant blink. Determined to demonstrate just how 'not scared' he could be.

"I know what I hope for. What I always hope for, Mr. Chandler. I wouldn't wish this -" her fingers flicked softly, viciously, against the clipboard – "on my worst enemy." And her gaze settled back on him. "I know…I know the price."

"I'm sorry," he said, fully absent of the stutters and pauses. Fully…honest. "Tad mentioned once that you had leukemia when you were a kid. I wasn't thinking. I know too, believe me. I'm sorry."

She nodded, and that should have been the end of it. The words came anyway, unheeded. "For a while, I was acutely aware of every minute. Every second. Every breath. One…bad night, I counted each one. I counted, and I attached a prayer and a promise to every breath. Not that I would be good. Not that I would do these amazing things. I just vowed that I would never forget again. I would never take it for granted. I think, in some ways, it was also a good night. The next morning, when the fever broke, I stopped counting. But I tried to never forget. I wasn't always successful, but I tried."

"When all the trying ends in failure, sometimes you just stop. And you stop getting back up. I wish…I wish we could all be that strong."

"I'm going to…" It was a trail-off that sounded more like the cut-off it was. He noticed.

"The custody trial." He shifted on the table. Away. "It's okay. We still have access to the occasional paper."

"Tad and Dixie have become good friends, so I want to support them. Tad is testifying for Krystal."

She needed, needed to stop providing commentary, because these people weren't just names in the newspaper. And try as he might, he could not hide his visible reactions to each. Cara steeled herself for the rants, the remnants of alcohol-soaked rage.

He surprised her with two low, but clear sentences. "He's been a tug-of-war rope his whole life. He deserves…deserved the world: a different world."

She could offer no platitudes. She couldn't offer anything as a buffer against the truth.

"Can you? When it's over, when they've decided, could you let me know?"

"I can't promise you that," she said honestly.

He nodded this time.

And she had the perfect opening for a quick exit. She closed her hand around the knob but paused when she saw the guard stationed outside. His hands were clenched.

Putting her coat down, she approached JR and placed her hand on his arm. The skin was warm this time. "I will help you back in the chair, and I'll escort you back to the cell."

He ended their visit with the same words. "Thank you." But different.

"Dr. Castillo?" He met her eyes again, and this time there was no hiding place.

"I'm scared."

####

"I realize how difficult recalling these events must be for you…"

"I am and will be fine."

"You were present on the night Adam Chandler's son opened fire at Mr. Chandler's mansion?"

"Yes, I was."

"Did you attend the gathering alone?"

"No, I did not."

"Who was with you at the time?"

"Marissa Tasker"

The jolt, the visible flash at the name was perhaps only visible to her. She shared the reaction.

"Ms. Tasker was the adoptive mother of Adam Chandler the Third, is that correct?"

"Yes."

"Where is Ms. Tasker today?"

"She was shot at the mansion. She…died almost instantly."

Krystal herself wanted to grab her lawyer by the neck and make him stop. She could understand the urge she now saw etched on the young woman's face. But he had…he had insisted it was necessary.

"You were shot as well, were you not, Ms. Montgomery?"

"Obviously."

"Please accept -"

"Please do not say it, sir. To answer your question more fully: yes, I was shot. And let the record show that I am indeed in a wheelchair."

"What was your relationship to the deceased, Ms. Montgomery?"

"We were living together. We were…we were in love."

Krystal once again recalled one of her last conversations with her daughter, where she echoed exactly the same words. The thought brought some small amount of comfort.

"So it is it fair to say that you were well-acquainted with Ms. Tasker, her son, and her mother?"

"Most fair. Excuse me, but I feel that I could better convey myself if I am allowed to speak freely, without prompting, if I may beg the court's indulgence."

The judge sighed. "This is your witness, Counselor. Your witness, your decision."

Devlin turned to Krystal, evidently valuing her opinion for once. She looked between Bianca and her lawyer and nodded.

"Proceed, Ms. Montgomery."

"I presume you would like my opinion on what Marissa would have wanted in this situation. I can tell you unequivocally that she would have wanted what's best for Adam Chandler the - no, AJ. Nothing more, nothing less. You would also presumably like my assessment of your client's mothering skills. I can provide that insight a little more fully. I've known Krystal for about a decade now, and right from the very beginning, she was all about her kids. I was good friends with Krystal's other daughter, Babe Chandler, and I vividly remember admiring - envying, even - how devoted Krystal was to her daughter, no matter what. God, I always thought, if only my mother could be that devoted, that understanding. That _involved_. Krystal and her daughter were even kind enough to allow me to be the godmother to Babe's young daughter. I was in a bad place, you see, because I'd lost my own daughter, but the Carey clan was there every step of the way to help me through my grief."

"Your honor, I –"

"Oh, I'm sorry, Your Honor. I'm imagining Mr. Devlin would like to retake control of the proceedings. We didn't really have a chance to go over my testimony in detail; I'm assuming I wasn't supposed to mention the exact circumstances of how well I know Ms. Carey's devotion to motherhood. But I would still like to speak freely, with the court's permission."

"Please go on, Ms. Montgomery."

"Your Honor, I'd just like the court to know that Krystal's devotion ran so deep that she was even willing to brave the perils of a DNA laboratory. Let's see, what was first? There was the time she acquainted herself _intimately_ with a lab technician so that her daughter wouldn't have to play a spirited round of 'Who's the daddy' with AJ."

"Your honor, this is –"

"I'm sorry. You can go ahead and strike that part from the record. Hearsay, I know. You do hear quite a lot in this town. But this next part…well, I got to hear that from the horse's mouth, so to speak. I got to hear from both Mama and Babydoll herself how Ms. Carey here – and let the record show I am pointing at one Krystal Carey – how Ms. Carey had uncovered the fact that my child was actually alive and living with Babe and JR Chandler under the name of Bess Chandler. Armed with this information, she took her latest liberties with the good ole' DNA lab and switched a label. It's funny, really. No high-tech computer hacking. Just swapping one piece of tape for another. She switched that label, and presto, _my_ little girl became Ms. Carey's granddaughter. But there's more. There's always more, isn't there? When word of Krystal's little indiscretion saw the light of day nine short months later, she came to my hospital room after I'd just woken up from a coma courtesy of JR Chandler. Yes, I do have quite the history with this family. After giving me the usual 'Congratulations on waking up from your coma' bouquet, she then asked me to help her daughter out just one more time, for the sake of her newfound grandson, of course. She asked me to not mention the existence of said grandson to his father…and let the record show that the grandson in question was indeed AJ Chandler. And I did, I did one thing I have regretted ever since. I went along with inflicting the pain that not even the worst scum of the earth should know on someone else. But Krystal wasn't quite done bargaining yet, I would find out. Krystal decided that she, and she alone, would brave prison for her poor, innocent daughter. Of course, that didn't last long, because when Ms. Carey later decided that she'd tired of the prison food, she – hearsay alert, but I'm sure Mr. Chandler over there would be more than happy to confirm – blackmailed Adam Chandler into marrying her right out from behind the bars and right out from under her sentence for stealing my daughter. The nature of the blackmail, you'll have to ask Ms. Carey, though. I do lose track in this town."

Each word, each truth had brought new numbness, until she couldn't think, couldn't speak, couldn't –

Finally, she found her voice. "Bianca, I'm sorry. I thought–"

"You thought what, Krystal? You said your two little words, so you thought maybe I should get over it? Forget?"

"No, I -"

"Someone told me something recently, Krystal. It was that old adage. You forgive, but you don't forget. Ever. I never forgot. And l would really, really like to ask you something."

"Your honor, the witness cannot -"

"I'm your witness; you subpoenaed me. So I suggest you let me finish my testimony."

"Agreed, Mr. Devlin." The judge banged his gavel, and it reverberated painfully through the now-dead silence of the courtroom. "Sit down."

Krystal placed a numb hand on her lawyer's shoulder. Her instincts – her survivor's instinct - were screaming she shouldn't. Something deeper was whispering that she had to…she must. "It's okay, I want to hear what she has to say. Everything."

"Marissa was a good person, maybe a little misguided sometimes, but considering her influences, not surprising. And we also know that she owed none of that goodness to you, being how you sold her on the black market for a quick buck and all."

That cut sliced through the numbness, drew invisible blood.

"What I want to know is if you ever lie awake at night wondering why it is that two of your children are dead? Does that question ever nag at you? And do you ever wonder why anyone should ever trust you with that little boy? Personally, I wouldn't trust you to raise my potted plant."

Erica Kane's daughter knew how to strategically place the cuts, to achieve maximum damage. The deepest cut was Krystal's certainty that she deserved every last one.

"And _you_ - don't you dare sit over there with your high-fives and your cat that swallowed the canary smirks."

Krystal tore her eyes from the table, from Devlin, from anywhere but that withering glare long enough to watch Adam's grin die from his face.

"If it pleases the court, I would like to offer an opinion on Mr. Chandler as well. I've known him even longer than I've known Ms. Carey. In fact, he used to be my stepfather."

"Your Honor, this is not our witness, and we do not agree -"

"I would like to hear what Ms. Montgomery has to say, Mr. Shire. It has proven most enlightening so far. Please, sit down."

Krystal couldn't take pleasure, even as she played spectator to the next lashing.

"I don't really recall a day when Mr. Chandler hasn't sported a five-figured suit and a smile to match. I won't bore the court by poring over his criminal record. I'm sure Mr. Devlin will serve you well in that regard. What I can maybe offer is some perspective on Mr. Chandler's unique parenting style. Adam's son and I grew up together. We went to high school together. He even stood up for me a couple of times, before he developed the urge to shoot me, that is. We'd commiserate a lot. Mostly, about our larger-than-life parents. He'd tell me how he felt about being the constant ping-pong ball in a never-ending bout of table tennis between his parents. His dad, especially, really fought hard for what he felt was his. I'm sure Dixie Martin can give you more insight on that. With JR, his confessions usually came between his latest dosage of X or his newest bottle of wine. He entered this juvenile delinquent phase that he never quite left. Funny thing was, every time he'd get close to owning up to the things he did, to taking responsibility and maybe getting some help, all of his problems would just magically vanish. Until one night, of course. I guess Mr. Chandler ran out of bail-out money about the same time that JR murdered his sister, Mr. Chandler's daughter."

Adam's sharp intake of breath broke the silence.

"If I wouldn't trust Krystal with a potted plant, I wouldn't trust Mr. Chandler with the care of the dirt in that pot. Your Honor, I speak honestly and without hesitation. If these are your choices - if these are AJ's only options - then God help you. And God help that little boy."

This time, Krystal faced those accusing eyes. And this time, she knew the unanimous verdict. She had, after all, served as the lead juror in her own condemnation.


	18. Chapter 18

As I have been under the influence of a lot of very colorful-and very powerful-cold medication the past few days, I had to cut this chapter short.

Some answers, but those pesky questions keep surfacing too…

####

"And?"

David wrapped the stethoscope around his neck. Although he'd never admit it, it wasn't the major breakthroughs or the OR stints, but the simple feel of the stethoscope that always made him feel connected to medicine. "And, dear brother, we have a problem because we're going to have to get her out of here. Someone's going to miss her sooner or later…"

Leo, in absence of anything better to mangle, was busy twisting a spare stethoscope. "I doubt it. Ryan was apparently a little preoccupied last night. That's why I -"

"Why what, Leo? Why you did the one thing I told you not to?"

"David, we don't have time for this now-"

Unbelievable.

"Well, we're gonna have to make time, because do you think when she wakes up this time - with me, no less - that I can feed her the _it was all a dream _excuse again?"

"You said she might forget."

The memory of his own New Year's Eve encounter flashed through his mind. Angie Hubbard, in her medical-induced fog, giving him a kiss on the lips before abruptly drifting back into said fog. The gift of forgetting might be in short supply today.

"We don't know. That's the point. We don't know what will happen when she wakes up, which is exactly why she needs to be here."

And exactly why Greenlee _shouldn't_ be there.

"She passed out so quickly, and I was in such a hurry to get her here, I didn't really -" Leo peered for the millionth time in the room's lone window, a two-inch slit. "Can I….can I see her?"

Sighing, David handed his brother the keycard. He followed closely behind because someone had to maintain a bit of professionalism here….as much professionalism as could be garnered in an underground lab, anyway.

When they'd been in this exact position before, David had given his brother the time alone, but he'd still heard every word, thanks to a well-placed listening device. He didn't experience the expected pangs of jealousy and envy then. He'd come to realize long ago that in his search for a kindred spirit – in Greenlee, in so many others, he'd ultimately just crushed his own. And in the process, he had lost one of the only people he could ever call something approximating a friend. It was a familiar tale.

David had emerged from his well-orchestrated eavesdropping session with one absolute certainty, however. No, two. One: his brother was still madly in love with Greenlee. And, two: the feeling was very much mutual.

Although no speeches or parting words were exchanged this time - although the only sound in the room was Leo's hand softly brushing his ex-wife's hair - David knew the same held true now.

He touched his brother's shoulder. "Leo, I really need to perform some more tests."

Leo's hand moved away with visible hesitation. He nodded. "Honesty, David."

David smiled, and since his brother's back was still turned, it wasn't his usual smirk. "Always. For you, anyway."

"You have an idea of what…this is." He motioned to the unconscious woman on the table. "And it's not good."

David extricated himself from the shadows and stood beside his brother. Honesty deserved light after all, right? "Do you remember after you…returned?"

Leo raised his eyebrows, getting the meaning. "Honestly, not much."

David bit his lip, considered measuring his words. Then through the measuring cup out. "I'm not really surprised, but you know it was, shall we say _difficult _for a while. The treatments aren't conventional and they aren't always pleasant. Many of the patients have experienced a rather unpredictable spectrum of side effects…"

#

_"Confusion, regression…"_

Get away. Get away with that smile.

Don't hear you. Don't wanna hear you.

Can't.

Get me out. They're planning something. They'll fool. Did something to my head.

Did something to me.

Who's there? Whose shadow?

No, go away! Get that thing away!

Don't touch.

Girl?

Warm. Don't go.

Kathy?

My Kathy. My little girl.

Tad. Tad. Tad...my anchor.

My together forever.

My family.

I can't - I _won't _lose them.

#

_"Blackouts…"_

He might've written it off as particularly 'spirited' night at the pub. Maybe a little brush-up with the liquid courage in Vegas. Being roused by the uniquely pungent taste and smell of a mud puddle was a distant, but not novel experience.

When said puddle was nestled under a giant oak swing, however, then perhaps it was time to reevaluate one's meanderings the night before. What he would be evaluating aside from the razor-shark stake behind his eye was another matter, however.

Zach grasped the seat of his sons' swing, which did nothing but send his already topsy-turvy world around for another few twirls. He forced in breaths that felt like acid poured over his muscles.

Muscles that had not known a quiet night, if their ache was any indication. Despite his present state, each fiber in his body still crawled with a hundred invisible ants…fire ants.

He pushed against the pole and dragged himself up, forcing the damp coolness of the metal against his head. Slowly, the icy slivers pierced through the milky haze, allowing a clear image entrance. A snapshot, but never a snapshot. A branded, in-living-color, vibrant memory consisting of three figures. His world.

As always, she was his fuel.

He had only one goal in mind. Get to her.

And when he focused on that far-away point, when he stumbled through the door, she was there, swallowed by that fluffy, decidedly un-come-hither robe that still drove him crazy.

"Zach, thank God! Where -"

And when he crashed into her waiting arms, the softness still amazed him.

Her hands….

Such a lovely, beautiful contrast to his hard veins, his cracked knuckles…each crack painted by a faint red.

Faint to almost anyone…

Except him: the one who knew too well the prices paid with bounties of blood.

#

_"_And intense head pain_."_

"So this is just side effects? She'll be okay, like the rest of us are?"

David really wished for that measuring cup back now. "Leo, my work wasn't subject to the typical clinical trials. That would've taken years, decades….and very likely all of you would be in the ground right now. But, I haven't had the opportunity to assess long-term effects, because – well, we'll get into that later. My point is, the cerebral effects, they…"

"Fill in the blank, David. Or is that what you're telling me? You've got nothing to fill it with? I didn't risk taking her to the hospital because I was afraid of being seen, but because I had faith in you!" Leo grabbed his collar, released it just as quickly. His hand hovered instead, over Greenlee.

"I'm sorry," he breathed. "What now?"

David shook his head. It would seem _later_ had to be now. "There might be a way to figure this thing out, but -"

One of the few voices that could ever stop him – or his brother – in their tracks. And it was surprisingly strong. Aware. "Leo…"

This time, no fainting into the arms. This time, Greenlee grabbed her presumed dead husband's arms like the bulldog she was.

Like she would never let go.


	19. Chapter 19

Well, the day was kind to some Ravens out there ; ) Congrats to the team and its fans. PV's citizens are a little preoccupied for Super Bowl festivities, but that doesn't stop the hard knocks from coming...

####

"So my sisters, neither of whom I've seen for at least ten years – neither of whom, as far as I knew, would _ever_ be in the same hemisphere – are now in the middle of some epic 'War of the Makeups.' You do realize this could only happen to me, right?"

Randi hunched her shoulders, an exaggerated shrug. The innocent gesture brought back so much.

"What about the fact that I end up working for some spoiled princess – no offense intended – and every time she happens to mention her brother Reggie, I never know she's really talking about one Reginald -"

"Drop the Reginald, Sis." Reggie playfully tipped the slicing knife in her direction. "We really shouldn't be surprised, though. This town is like a mecca for long-lost parents, siblings, and second-cousins-once-removed. Heck, the whole mixed-up family reunion thing is how Greenlee got to be part of our family to begin with."

"Yeah, Erica Kane wedding #10, right, or was it 11? I definitely want to hear that story sometime."

"I really don't think you do." Reggie gave her a one-armed squeeze. "I missed you, Sis."

"Ditto, Reg."

He maneuvered behind the counter, palmed one of the numerous brown lumps. "I see time hasn't killed your enthusiasm for some things." He tilted a brow while dangling the puffy vegetable before his smirking sister. "Remember Tater-Gal? You carried that thing around like a real, live doll. Certainly saved Mom some toy money."

She blushed, and God, he'd never realized how much he missed it.

"I remember you standing tip-toes at the counter when she peeled them. You'd plop your chin on your knuckles and just watch, offering an instruction - no, a command every now and again." Reggie easily captured the rogue potato sailing towards his shoulder. "Always had to be princess of the castle," he added with a wink.

"Queen," she corrected.

Randi slid him a knife, the command apparent.

"So this is dinner, huh?"

She grinned and nodded, and in time, they established a harmony: peeling beats and slicing choruses. The pile of brown curls crowned a mountain, and he chanced it. "You should be proud of where you are. I know I'm proud of you."

"Why? Because I have the perfect picket fence life now? Honest truth, I keep expecting to wake up one day and find out none of it's real."

"No, because you wanted something, and you didn't back down until you got it. Precious few can say that."

Her slicing sped up. "No, that was you, Reg. You're the one who listened to yourself, damned the consequences." She winced, dropping the knife with a loud clack. "I'm sorry."

And there it was. The guilt he'd read since the moment he'd seen her again. "For what? It wasn't you. It wasn't any of us. It just was."

They couldn't stop their brother from being gunned down in the middle of the street, any more than they could stop Mom from dying. More peacefully. No less painfully. Any more than they could stop the great foster home sweepstakes that had become most of their teen years. She nodded, and the red river pouring down her fingertip glistened.

"Damn, Sis." He snatched a paper towel courtesy of the rack brushing his left arm. It quickly soaked. He took the knife from her steady hand and grabbed a rag, but she stopped him.

"We need to stop the bleeding. I'm sure you've got more -"

A stinging spark lanced his finger. Before he could respond, she joined his pulsing finger with hers.

"Blood promise, remember?"

Of course he did. Memories had been his bread and butter.

Randi wrapped her uninjured hand around their bleeding ones. Sealed the oath. "Promise me we'll find her." She tightened the cocoon. "It's not anything new, you know? Thinking about him. Where he is. Especially with Frankie; it's just brought up a lot of stuff."

"We're gonna find him." This time, he tightened their hands.

"That's what Frankie said."

"So he knows?"

"Yeah. And we made a vow we'd do this together. See his son. Find our brother."

"And you've got backup now."

"The best."

She offered a surer smile, and, joining their hands in a towel, she led them from the mound of shredded skins.

####

"They don't have an official position on this. It would be a hard sell. Who would be -"

"Me." His prospective client's face visibly tensed, and Jack immediately regretted the question.

"And everyone that is willing to join me," Liza added, her voice aiming for the persuasive lawyer despite its compulsion to take on another, more personal role. "Look, I could make this case on my own, but your influence, your involvement – their involvement – would make it -"

"More visible?" he guessed.

Harder to ignore.

Liza gave a silent nod. It was ironic, in a way. They had both taken on the mantle of the DA job, and each had spent as much time fighting against the system they'd taken a vow to preserve and protect as they had fighting for it. And he couldn't truly say either one of them had emerged victors.

When she opened her briefcase, Jack expected neatly lined stacks of case files and official reports. He had expected the legal shark to make her case logical bite by critically analytical chomp.

The prolonged rummage –evidenced by several errant and haphazard slips of paper harshly mashed together – only resulted in a single untouched, unmarked document, however.

He briefly wondered at how it had survived its current occupancy, but when Liza gently slipped it into his hands, he knew the answer.

"I'm just the executor, you see." Legal terms, and the lawyer's voice was still there. But something else was, too. "For her. For them. For everyone who can't make a speech or advocate for a law anymore. They have the most to say, but they can't speak. I want to be their voice."

His thumb traced the chin, the nose, the smile. He looked to the side of his desk at his own family picture. His center. Different features, different lines and curves, but, somehow the same.

"They may not have an official position, but it's ultimately your stand to take."

He knew she wouldn't ask, yet when Liza Colby closed her briefcase and walked out the door, Jack knew that the phone call he would soon make was just a formality.

####

"I feel obligated to do the whole overprotective brother thing, but Frankie actually seems cool."

"Don't let him hear you say that. We were just having an argument the other day about these completely Poindexter glasses he refuses to throw away. He hears the word cool in association with him, and _I'll_ never hear the end of it." She drew in a breath. Long, peaceful. "It's crazy, because even now we're still learning, you know. Favorite colors, foods, blogs, all of it. She mashed a palm against her forehead, willed the stumbling little girl to let up a bit. His grin must have encouraged her forward. "He taught me never to settle. He showed me other realities were possible, and he's reintroducing me to somebody I didn't know existed." She walked over to the kitchen's only picture, gazing at the star of nearly every photo in the house. "I'm not exactly mother material. I've made too many mistakes, too many bad choices to count."

"That's called life, Sis."

"Frankie and I, we were getting to that 'settling in' place, you know? And you may remember how high-strung I can be."

He remembered, all right, how untrue that was. He remembered the tug of her hand when the social services people were leading them out the door, in opposite directions.

"Sometimes I look at her and I -"

Enough.

"I don't think you're a great mother, I know." Reggie took the picture from the wall. "And I don't need this or the hundred other copies in this house to know that. I don't need to have been here for the birthday candles or the forehead kisses." He coated his dry lips. "I always felt incomplete. Always. No matter where I went, what I did, how many bad hairstyles I mangled." He nudged his shoulder with hers. "No matter what, I always felt out-of-focus. Like one of those old photos where everything seems right, all the objects in their right place - hell, even the trees are shiny green - but when you look closer, when you really see, it's all just a little off-kilter. And maybe nobody else notices, maybe they would stick that sucker front page of their album, but for you, it drives you -"

"Nuts."

"Yeah," he said, letting out a breath. "Yeah. I was lucky enough to find a new family, new people I'd lay down my life for, but they were never replacements. They never could be. My family, it's just a little bigger." He let his eyes settle on her. "And now, a lot more complete."

With time, they'd find their one missing link and make it complete. "I'm in focus now."

The quiet _thank you_ lightened her eyes, and managed to lift a few weights inside of him too.

"Look at you, all domesticated."

He grinned. "Both of us. Who'da thunk it?"

Randi was watching him now, and she had this annoying habit of making him squirm like a flea under a microscope. "You know, I've only talked to her once, but Yasmin seems great too."

"She is."

"I've never heard the grand 'meet cute' tale though. Us big sisters have got our vetting process too. So spill."

"It's…a long story."

And then some. Thankfully, a certain little girl had decided that she would like her own bedtime story.

Randi smirked. "Saved by the cry." As she put down the nursery speaker and left him with clean-up duty in the kitchen, she offered another observation over her shoulder: "I would never make you choose sides, but you should know that I'm totally gonna -"

"Whoop Greenlee's ass?" he ventured.

"No, no."

Now, _that_ smile, he knew.

"I'll be content with just kicking it."

####

He had every intention.

He had every intention of walking out the door, and meaning it this time.

He had every intention of making that touch, that word, that smile, this feeling sustain a lifetime.

He had every intention of letting go.

But that renowned road, it's always well-paved.

Because when she touches him like that, when she digs in like that, like it was yesterday – and, crazy thing, it was – he can't quite remember the intention or the definition of the intention. He can't quite remember anything, but… This.

He tries to pull away, because that's his new normal, or his old familiar.

"Leo DuPres., if you move another muscle, you're gonna be the one sprawled on this table."

And he knows – the only thing he knows right now, really – is that she means it. So he obliges.

He thinks it might be easier. To just stand here, eyes locked, frozen in this moment, because what comes after - what happens when the paralysis, when the OMG moment has broken and shattered - _that_ is what terrifies him. And he can admit it. Admit to being most sincerely, most righteously…afraid.

But he doesn't have to worry, because she's never been one for peeling the band-aid off slowly. She's a ripper, and she's doing it now. With everything she has. With everything she is.

She's ripping his heart out of his chest and stitching it back together; she's ripping away every would, could, should and shredding it at his feet.

And she's doing it all in one breath: one breath they're greedily sharing like it's the last bit of air, or the last evidence of life, left on earth.

And maybe it is. On his earth, _his_ world, anyway.

She detaches her lips and nothing else. Ten years, more dream-filled nights than he could ever count, and she was still, undeniably, the best damn kisser he'd ever have the pleasure of knowing. Of feeling.

He still hasn't seen those beautiful eyes. Right now, he's debating whether to open his own. To confirm….or deny.

But those lips, those lips that are teasing his ear now: there's no denial. Only truth.

"Don't you dare tell me _that_ was a dream," they whisper, yet still command.

She still hasn't let go, and he knows she won't. That's the thing. Even though the next words whispered into his ear are more broken, more soft, he can feel the determination tightening them as much as it is tightening her grip on him. And his on her.

"Tell me."

With that, the last intention goes strolling merrily down that well-paved road. "I'm here," he says. "I'm alive." And for the first time in so very long, he means it.

They are still cheek-to-cheek. Heartbeat to heartbeat. The confessionals so warm. So close.

"Why?"

"You were happy. That's all I ever wanted." The callback. The one through-line.

"I could be happy _because_ of you. And I _know_ you. There's more..."

"Not now." Not now, because now... "I just want to feel this," he whispers.

There is no reminiscing about bologna sandwiches and champagne bubble baths. No light teasing to ease the heavy air. To unmagnetize. There is just them.

"I felt you, every night, since.."

She shifts, pulls away, and it's no longer just them. Melted minutes have solidified. Brought them back. He considers the wisdom of holding her back. He'd paid for it once before, in a long-ago park. He wouldn't again.

Greenlee approaches David and he doesn't wince. Leo is doing enough of that for the both of them. His brother seems to be almost…steeling himself. And when she draws back and wallops him with all the steel in her, he doesn't rub his chin or take a staggering step back. His face remains blank. Perfectly blank…

When she abruptly launches forward and wraps him in an equally strong embrace, although his eyes widen just a fraction and his lips part, David still holds out.

Until she raises up and utters two low words that still manage to echo across the room.

"Thank you."

Only then does David's face move. Only then does it say everything without ever saying anything.

_We're in this together._

####

"So, how's the day been?"

"Well, I kicked it off with Liza Colby."

"My apologies."

"It's okay, or I think it will be. She has this case that might require my assistance. I know it'll be a powderkeg."

"Which is exactly why you'll take it."

"Maybe. How's my girl?"

"Lily's currently enjoying a brown bag lunch with my brother."

"That's wonderful, but I was actually inquiring about my other girl."

"This girl's got a long day ahead of her with merger meetings, but she's quite enjoying her own lunch date right now."

Even if she didn't have one of the most charming and altogether sexiest voices this side of the seaboard – even if she wasn't currently gracing him with that soft, only-for-him tone that assuredly never made an appearance in the boardroom - even then he'd still consider a daily phone lunch with his wife one of life's greatest luxuries.

"The sentiment is very much mutual, I can assure you," he said, releasing the stress ball he no longer needed. "I'm just sorry I can't be there personally to -"

"Hmm…."

"Wipe away that gob of ketchup that's currently -"

A pause, then a huff resounded through the speaker. "How did you? – I've got a napkin right now."

"Oh, but I wouldn't need the napkin."

"Getting rid of the evidence? How very unlawyerly"

"Never. Just providing my client with the very best service.'"

The current tone was one reserved for another kind of room entirely. "How about treating this 'client' to a dinner date later? With a full dessert menu?"

"Consider my schedule cleared." He cleared his throat in turn. "But first, I'm going to take another crack at wishing my other daughter a happy new year. I couldn't get in touch earlier."

"Greenlee probably just had a late night. I'm sure she's fine."

This assertion was accompanied by the entrance of his other wayward child.

"Well, at least I won't have to play phone tag with my very respectful son. Can we continue this later?"

"Oh, that's a guarantee, Counselor."

"Sounds…promising." Try as he might to maintain a show of professional decorum, he couldn't help the decidedly unprofessional grin that accompanied the end of his call.

His smile withered at the non-festive expression on his son's face. "Happy new year, and what can I do for you, son?"

Reggie, as expected, did not mince words. "Tell me we're one step closer to getting our lives back. Tell me we can save my wife's life."

Sighing, Jack reclaimed the stress ball and squeezed.

####

"Tell me."

They were the same words she'd said to his brother earlier. The same sentence she'd whispered right before she'd given David the biggest surprise of his day. And considering the day he'd had, that was saying something.

And he did. To his neverending and utter astonishment, David had found that telling the truth did, in fact, not have to come with a warning label. The words never even stuck in his throat.

And Greenlee had found her own honest streak as well. When she told him how the headaches had been going on for months, his concern deepened. Unfortunately, he wasn't exactly surprised. He had to wonder if the others might be experiencing some of the same things. And Angie…

"What can we do?"

It was amazing, really. He didn't even think they realized it. Their hands just seemed to be naturally connected, second-nature. And the way they sat together across from him, on the table – like the couple just waiting for the doctor's diagnosis. For the next step…together.

Every bit the 'we.'

"It's a theory, just a theory for now -"

"David, you've never been cautious or courteous in your life. Get to it."

He smiled because this, _this_ was the woman he knew. The fighter. And she's the one they all needed now. "I think we need a stabilizer, if you will. Something to dilute the admittedly strong effects my protocol can create. And I think the best chance of finding that stabilizer is through someone who's developed the necessary, shall we say, immunity to the more potent effects."

"Which could only be a former patient."

Leo was already ahead of him, and he guessed, halfway into the forest. The only problem was that his brother had no idea what lurked in that particular tangle of trees.

"David, if you need blood or, hell, anything, for some kind of serum, I -"

"No." It would have to be him to pull the reigns. "Leo, I'm talking about the kind of stabilization properties that would take more than a few years to build up. I'm talking decades."

Greenlee was watching him closely, her usually wide eyes hooded. "Maria Santos?"

David only shook his head.

"But she was your first patient…."

His silence halted that assertion.

He was an enterprising med student, but not a wealthy one. He was persuasive, though, and his 'enterprises' caught the attention of the right people…or so he thought at the time.

She had no name. His Patient Zero, freshly delivered to his doorstep from some unnamed near-calamity.

Her face, though, was beautiful. That he did remember. That, and the name of her hometown…

The town that, despite its citizens' best, prolonged efforts at ensuring his eviction, he now called home.


	20. Chapter 20

Here's hoping the Northeasterners battling the elements this weekend stay safe and warm!

####

_I think we need to talk about what happened at the hearing_.

_It's Sarah. We need to talk. I can't…do this anymore_.

_Honey, we need to talk. Please call_.

_Ms. Montgomery., I would like to talk with you about the incident with Gabby at your earliest convenience_.

Talking: the fool's illusion for doing.

And now everyone wanted their say.

She pressed the button. Played the last message back. Remembered the benefits of doing before she picked up the phone and ensured that her daughter's so-called teacher received a swift, prompt response.

"I don't care if she's tenured until she's hobbling on a cane. This _Kane_ is going to give her something to hobble about. Get it done."

She had expected it. The first day Gabby got on the school bus, the first day she'd resisted every overprotective-mother urge to tail the bus – Bianca had only waited for the inevitable day when her daughter would slink off the school bus and hide in her room. She wouldn't cry or rage like her sister might. In some unfortunate regards, she was her mother's daughter. She would just feel. Quietly. Unintrusively. She would feel everything.

Bianca had expected this. She had even prepared the conversation, fine-tuned from the last time...with Miranda. _Our family is different, but not all that different. I love you the same. They don't understand. Give them time_.

Except she would leave out that last part, because the one thing she would never again give was that precious 'time'' - that 'time' to validate herself and her family for people who, quite frankly, did not deserve the 'time' of day.

She had expected this speech to be dusted off and implemented after some errant remark from the schoolyard bully, or maybe in the heat of a lunchtime battle over the last buttered roll.

She had never expected her daughter, along with AJ Chandler, to be the subject of the latest break room gossip amongst the school's supposed adults.

She had never expected her too-sweet, all-too-trusting daughter to amble up to her favorite teacher – just to say 'hi' - and to overhear how her mommy had made AJ's daddy kill a bunch of people.

And, she was willing to venture, a certain kindergarten teacher never expected to lose her job over this 'small incident.'

Ms. Johnson was about to learn about the danger of expectation.

Bianca picked up the phone again and dialed a familiar number.

"I'm ready to _execute_ the rest of the plan."

As was someone else.

####

Melt-in-the-mouth middle. Swift. Smooth flip. And, of course, the sizzle.

He was getting to be a regular sous chef, at least when it came to the fine art of over-easy eggs. And, like any great foodie, he had to add his own special trademark.

With the image of the first time he'd served his morning pick-me-up to a horrified but ultimately satisfied Natalia, he slid the egg onto its creamy, vanilla ice cream-tinged oatmeal base.

The bacon was still getting its crisp on, so he fired up the coffee-maker. One dollop of cream? Or maybe they should just live dangerously and go for two. This particular breakfast had to be, well…perfect.

Brot pulled out the rumpled brochure. He smoothed the wrinkles that somehow didn't diminish the charm of the tiny chapel and cottage. It would be the centerpiece of the tray: the conversation piece for a conversation that was long overdue.

Smiling and badly whistling a nameless tune, he went to confirm the second most important topic of the day: "Hey, hon, how much cream –"

Another image quickly captivated his mind: his fiancée, convulsing on the floor.

####

"You think you can spare a few minutes to talk with your poor, lost bro?"

For the first time today, the word 'talk' didn't set her teeth on edge.

"Get over here right now."

Bianca couldn't hide the mirth behind the order, and said 'lost' brother couldn't help obeying, goofy grin in place the whole time.

The grin only grew wider when she flipped now non-existent dreds. "Nice haircut," she mused, her own grin teasing her lips.

"Several years and a few recent rounds of phone tag, and that's all you gotta say to me? Nice haircut? Although, admittedly, it is."

"Well, there was one other thing -"

"Yeah?"

"Did you get shorter? I could've sworn that basketball camp you were at for a year had a height requirement."

Now he hopped up onto his feet, properly outraged. "Hey, I'm just waiting on my call from the Celtics, and…well, you look different, too."

"Snappy comeback. I see you've been frequenting the comedy clubs."

They shared a mutual glare before simultaneously dissolving into a fit of giggles. Giggle, God, how long had it been since she'd done _that_?

Reggie knelt again and wrapped her up in a longer hug. She closed her eyes and savored the moment. He made it too easy…too easy to go back…

"This freakin' town." He swiped at his eye when he pulled back. "It can really ruin a guy's street cred, you know?"

"You've still got some left to ruin?"

She grabbed his hand before it could get in a swipe.

"Sorry, sorry. Kendall's influence. I would like to know, though, what finally brought my bad-ass bro back to the whirlpool of fun that is Pine Valley?"

"We can talk about that later."

Quick, not-so-smooth deflect.

"Actually," he added, slapping his hands against his knees, "I was hoping maybe you and the kids – and maybe Kendall's brood, too - could join us for breakfast. My treat."

"Us?"

"OK, I technically came to pick her up, but you were my first stop. Is she here? Or, back that up, what did you think? Be honest."

Well, _honestly_, she had no idea what the hell Reggie was talking about.

"I -"

"Yes, please, be honest." That voice already grated. This newbie was going to have to learn her place, which did not include interrupting private conversations. Brooke must have been smoking –

The inner rant screeched to a halt as her brother put his arm around the smiling intruder. "What did you think of my wife?"

_Oh..._

Before she could replace the finisher to that thought with a more sanitary _of course, _Reggie directed another question toward the new arrival. "And what did you think of my sister?"

"Oh, she was everything you said." Still smiling, the girl met her eyes and offered the patented double eyebrow-raise before turning back to Reggie. "And more."

####

"It's not like him, or Greenlee for that matter."

She put the phone down for the hundredth time because Zach had that look. That straight-lined 'I wanna say something, Probably something you're not gonna like, but I'm just gonna sit here and give you that 'look' instead'' look.

Normally, she might be inclined to _accidently_ drop a plate...or maybe hurl it against the wall a couple of feet from his head.

Just to get a reaction. Anything.

But after their experience yesterday, she was willing to leave her husband to his brooding ways. Right now, those very predictable ways were comforting.

"Emma's a great kid, but she's still insecure. She's still afraid of being abandoned. I can….I can see that."

Kendall could see it too well.

With her history, who could blame Emma?

"Ryan wouldn't let his daughter think, even for a minute –"

"It's not been that long. Just give it time."

_And drop it. Right now_.

That's what the non-reassuring, non-calm, silent Zach was saying, anyway.

"Look, Emma's fine right now. In fact, she's currently schooling our sons in the fine art of losing Go-Fish gracefully. If we don't hear from them by this afternoon, then I'll go over there myself. Figure this thing out."

She stopped her pacing, her only currently available energy-burner. "I think you've had enough adventure for one day. Speaking of which, I think we should still call the doctor."

"I told you, it was just sleepwalking. It…it happened a lot when I was a kid. No big deal."

He was doing that one-fingered temple-rub. Trying to control it. Trying to be Mr. Calm Guy. But those same two words were still there, just below: d_rop it_.

"That 'no big deal' scared the hell out of me."

They hadn't exactly led the most peaceful of existences, but it still wasn't every day she woke up on New Year's Day to her husband collapsing into her arms.

And, lately, he'd been…different.

"I'm fine now. Promise." He managed to capture her hand on one of her pace-bys. "Join me." He signaled to the small plastic bag on the counter. "And please tell me that's the latest issue of _Hockey Now_. A guy's gotta have his morning reading."

He had _that_ way, too: that way of calming the nervous energy that a hundred of her tics and habits couldn't. She instantly smiled and grabbed the bag before settling down across from him. Morning was always 'their' time. Sometimes it would be spent here at the kitchen table, with a paper and a couple of cups of coffee, as they tried to manage the 'normal couple' thing. Other times, they'd be occupied in more _aerobic_ activities. Either way, and both ways had their definite benefits, morning was their time to decompress. To just be.

Kendall slid her purchase onto the table, grinning as she flipped through its contents. "Well, it is interesting reading material. And this part is perfect, I think. Look at the meanings for the name Joshua: God saves, salvation…"

She was eagerly pushing the book across the table, until she saw the new look on Zach's face. Exactly what she wanted: an unmasked, unplugged reaction.

And exactly what jarred the hell out of her.

She saw undeniable, indisputable…anger.

No, not anger.

Rage.

"Zach, what -"

"I don't want to hear his name again. Forget him."

Each word was careful, barely controlled, but hers sure as hell wouldn't be.

"Forget him? He's my brother. Not was. _Is_. Always will be. And, in case _you're_ forgetting, I owe my life to him. He saved me."

"_I_ saved you!"

She didn't flinch at the volume, or the venom, in the words. She didn't flinch as the coffee cup in his hand imploded, sending shards of glass and steamed liquid across the table.

She didn't even flinch when she looked up and saw their two guests just inside the doorway.

One wore the proper stunned, slightly embarrassed expression.

Her sister, though, wore a very familiar expression: equal parts hurt, guilt, and…knowing.

_What are the two of you keeping from me now_?

Only then, only when she sensed that she probably didn't want the answer to that question – when she affirmed that she was sure as hell going to find it anyway – did Kendall flinch.

####

The arms. Trembling, then thrashing. Uncontrolled. But they're still reaching, reaching.

And he can't. He's trying, but he can't reach back.

He can't move, because it's so hot now. It's always so damn hot, and now somebody's just thrown gasoline on it all, lit a match, because it burns.

It burns and he can't crawl out of his own skin.

His muscles may have abandoned him, but his senses - they're on full alert.

He can smell. The smoke, the char, the overcooked…

He can hear. Sizzling, crackling. Spliced with the relentless pops on an endless loop.

And he can see. Everything. But he won't. He won't dare acknowledge the writhing shadows haunting the corner of his eye. The bold highlights against the angry orange backdrop.

And he won't look into those still-open eyes. The ones tethered to the restless legs, the tongue-shredding teeth, and the ever-pounding, ever-reaching arms.

Arms reaching for help that will not come.

He won't.

"Brot?"

He can't.

"Brot? Come on, man. Come back."

_Come back, soldier_.

The smoke from surely blackened bacon stung his nostrils, and the sputtering coffee maker still wheezed a few hacking breaths.

And a face hovered over him.

"Jesse, I –" The slow pounding behind his eyes exploded as he scrambled to his feet. "Natalia, oh God, she –"

His fiancée, who had been splayed on the floor for God knew how long, was now relaxed in the chair. Obviously, based on her measured breaths and pale skin, she was still recovering. She offered him a small, concerned smile.

_She_ was concerned for _him_.

"It's okay. She had a seizure, but I got her the medicine. I got here just in time."

_In time_.

"I'm sorry." All he could say. He wanted to go to her, but, once again, he was paralyzed. God, what if -

"She's gonna be okay. We're all gonna be okay. Where did you go, Brot?"

Only one set of muscles could move. His fingers released their death-grip on the paper in his hand. He looked down at the destroyed cottage. "Nowhere."

His erratic heart had slowed to a rumble. The explosion had settled into a small flame. And he could finally look into those eyes.

He could finally look into them and ask one quiet question.

_What if I can't save you_?

####

She knew it was inevitable, so why did it hurt so damn much?

Kendall might've smiled more, said – or, more accurately, not said – all of the right things. They might've even had the girls' night outs and done the kid sleepover exchange every month…

They might've convinced themselves for a while that it was all good. Fine. Never better. The same.

But it wasn't.

In those unguarded moments, when the once-easy silence now begged to be filled with too-hasty, too-generic words, Bianca could see what Kendall tried so hard to hide.

She'd spent the last five years waiting for the day when the well-earned distrust and disappointment in her sister's eyes took its center-stage.

That day had come on the back of yet another Pine Valley secret that had managed to give its diligent, exhausted guard the slip.

The numbness was supposed to be her talisman. Looking between her sister and brother-in-law, however, she realized that it, too, had given her the slip.

Reggie, ever the peace-maker, attempted a treaty while foregoing the necessary details. The ever-so-vital _specific_s. ""We, um—" He cleared his throat and tried on the smile again. It didn't fall away this time. "We thought you, Zach, and the boys might go for a late breakfast with us and Yasmin. You know, catch up?"

Zach had become the tabletop's most faithful scholar, leaving Kendall to try on her own smile. Her fitting wasn't quite as successful. "That sounds great, but I've – we've gotta man the fort here. We're waiting for Ryan and Greenlee to pick up Emma. Maybe another time?"

Reggie, taking the hint, nodded. "Absolutely."

Wilting under her sister's watchful eye, Bianca interjected. "I think – I'm sorry, but I'm gonna have to pass, too. I just remembered this meeting I have."

God, that sounded banal, even to her.

But it _was_ true.

Reggie threw his hands up. "I guess it's just me and my lovely wife then."

"Oh, the horror," Kendall mocked, which brought another grin from their brother.

Their brother.

Those particular words brought a whole new set of long-buried feelings and complications.

Reggie, as unawkwardly as he could manage, given the circumstances, excused himself. Bianca thought that she, too, might escape unscathed.

Right up until halfway on her journey out the door, when Kendall took hold of her arm.

"We need to talk," she whispered: half the Kane-command. And half-plea.

Those infamous words.

"We will." Bianca's smile didn't have any better success. "Right now, I think you need to talk to him."

She nodded inside and was startled by the set of eyes locked on her, full of their own commands…and pleas.

What was one more secret between in-laws?

####

Kendall cleaned up the coffee stain.

She listened to the sweet sounds of her children's laughter mingling with the deeper rumble of her husband's.

She put the book back in its bag and placed it in the drawer.

She opened the laptop, went online, and typed three words: _Josh Madden death_.

####

Reggie's car pulled away and her driver immediately filled his spot. Signaling to the man, Bianca read her new text.

_He's ready_.

And responded in quick fashion.

_Good. I will be there soon_.


	21. Chapter 21

Lots of things to celebrate recently: President's Day, Valentine's Day - the fact that we didn't play pool with an asteroid : )

Forewarning, however, this chapter's not exactly of a celebratory nature. It gets a little...intense…

####

Dealing with the undead could kill you, but who would've thought it worked up such a sweat?

Brooke had just barely outpaced an especially spirited pursuer when she looked up from her new exercise app to find something infinitely more frightening: Erica Kane - hair back, somehow _not_ breaking a single sweat - easily jogging on the neighboring treadmill.

And staring directly at her with one sculpted eyebrow lifted.

Sighing, she pulled the earplugs off and waited. One thing she would not do, however, was break her pace. After a prolonged silence filled with the continuous beats of wretched techno music, Brooke was ready to brave even the perils of Erica. "Go ahead," she said.

Her impromptu exercise partner simply raised the other eyebrow: an effect that would create at least one visible wrinkle in most foreheads. Not in Ms. Kane's, however. Perish the thought. "What?"

"Go ahead and do what I know you've been dying to do since the moment you came in here. Remark on my running attire, or perhaps my tragic treadmill technique"

Those eyes widened just a fraction more. "Why, Brooke, what kind of person do you take me for? I'm simply following my doctor's advice and developing a routine exercise schedule. Although I would advise giving your hair a small brush-up, unless that's your natural look, of course." The little insertion only came with the slightest of smirks. "Since you're here, though, I would like to keep our appointment. You must have forgotten, because I could not possibly think of another reason why you would skip out meeting." She pushed the button that raised her speed and subsequently pushed Brooke's own buttons without missing a beat.

"If by appointment, you are referring to that phone call in which you demanded that I sit in my office all day waiting for you to grace me with your presence, then no, I did not forget. I happened to be busy with the business of attending a court -"

She tried to cut off the statement, but no such luck. If one thing could be said about Erica, it was her almost innate ability to leverage an opening.

The perspiration creeping into every pore and the uptick in her heartbeat….and likely blood pressure….Erica seemed to possess 'that' gift, too.

"Oh, I heard about that." This time, there was no attempt to hide the smirk. "My daughter made quite the character witness. And the glorious part was, she didn't have to tell a single lie."

Although sparring with her might be the one thing that invigorated Erica right now, Brooke wouldn't take the bait. Maybe, for once, they could find a better way.

"Erica, if you want to talk about Bianca – if that's what this is about – then just say so. I am fine with it."

"It's always just so wonderful to know what you are fine with, Brooke. Thank you for your permission to talk about _my_ own daughter."

It was the first crack in that polished veneer, and the emphasis on a certain word did not go unnoticed.

"She's really good, Erica. She's got a natural gift for this. That's the only reason –"

"Of course she's good," Erica snapped. "She's been a writer since the day she could pick up a pencil. Do you think I don't know that about my own daughter?' That particular choice of words stamped the air again. Erica's pace now matched the energy in her words. Brooke wanted to tell her to slow down, but thought better of it.

"Bianca loves you. I know that. Everybody knows that." Except, apparently, for the one person who should know it best. She had never skirted around Erica Kane in her life, and she wouldn't start now. Direct approach. "I'm not trying to steal your daughter, Erica."

"As if you could."

The look-away only lasted an instant, but Brooke knew its toll.

"Do you think just because you share things in common with her, just because you perch yourself up on this pillar of do-gooder morality, do you think just because she – turns to you when…" She did collect a breath this time. "Do you think any of it could ever change things between me and my daughter?"

"No, I don't." The words were simple, but they seemed to settle something in Erica. "Believe me, I know better than anyone that bond : it's something nobody can ever break. No matter what. And you talk about all the things Bianca and I might have in common, but her best asset – her strength – it's all you."

Quickly filling the silence, lest anyone think they were having a 'moment,' Erica spoke up again. "I…I didn't come her to talk about Bianca, anyway. I need your -I need Tempo's assistance with something important."

This time, it was Brooke's turn to partake in the eyebrow lift. Just as Erica's tone partook in all the verve and venom that she could muster earlier, it took a decidedly softer tone now.

"I'm listening."

"I am certain that you know of my recent…difficulties."

Brooke had refrained from comment on the readily apparent differences in Erica's appearance. She hadn't expressed how startled, worried, and…proud she had been when Erica first unveiled her new self to the world.

Sometimes, silence was indeed golden.

"Yes." Less words, less chance for a rapid breakdown of communication.

"I have been fortunate to meet some very inspiring individuals that have helped - that have become important to me." Even now, that well-enforced wall bore its load. "Including one very special little girl."

The words…the words that always brought a thousand beautiful snapshots, concentrated in a singular, lasting image. Brooke was at full attention.

"She's…" Erica drew in another deep breath, but for once she could not control the crack. "She's going through a rough period, and with Tempo's – with _your_ help – we can ensure that she makes it..."

Erica never allowed the admission, the possibility, to find its form.

"Through the rough period, of course."

When Brooke looked over, the clear answer to a vague plea already formed on her lips, the affirmation quickly found its contradiction.

When she saw her long-time adversary stumble and finally fall from the treadmill, Brooke whispered an emphatic "No."

####

Parks were nice. Non-threatening. Ideal for his purposes.

The boy matched the ambiance, With any luck, that would soon change.

Adam sat across from the boy in silence. _Always give them the first word. Make them think they have the advantage_.

"I'm here out of respect for your daughter, sir."

The word made him tense. Made him regret the decision. Only for an instant. Then the tenseness transformed into steel resolve.

"We were – maybe not best friends, exactly – but I'd like to think we understood each other in some important ways."

That would be the day. "In what way?"

The boy looked him directly in the eye, not a fidget in sight. He would have to admit surprise at that.

"Powerful, 'involved' fathers. That was more than enough."

_And the fact that you wanted to get in my daughter's pants. probably on the directive of your vermin father_.

Adam gave his most charming smile: the one that had earned him a few of his more flattering monikers. "Duly noted, and I actually agree with you. I would not blame you if you don't believe this, but I would have been perfectly fine –"

"Don't bother, sir, because you're correct. I don't believe you." Little Petey Cortlandt adjusted his glasses and did look away this time, toward the mutt chasing its tail. Most appropriate.

It was just as well. Adam did not want to choke out those words, and he did not want to sully his daughter's memory with such simulated nightmares.

"That's fair."

_Keep it agreeable_.

When the boy redirected his attention, Adam was briefly gazing directly into a very familiar set of eyes.

"Listen, Mr. Chandler. I am fairly certain I know the reason for this sudden interest. And I can tell you right now, it won't work. So please, redirect your energies to more important things, like your grandson's custody trial."

_Oh, that will come soon enough_.

The boy had proven that he was still exactly that.

Adam removed his jacket, folded his hands, and leaned closer. "You would be absolutely right. I won't pretend that I have altruistic motives here. I'm a selfish bastard. Ask anyone in this town. But you know what, Peter?" Formal. Respectful. And it got the boy's attention. "When it counts, I'm also an honest bastard. Especially when it comes to business. In business, you've got to cut out your heart."

An absolute, non-specific 'honest' truth, because the philosophy never just applied to business matters.

"So you should recognize that what Caleb did, it was just business," the boy noted.

"'_That _was anything but business. That man let useless emotion drive his every decision. This little fantasy castle he's created is built as a monument to his hatred for me. Do you think the time – the moment – he chose to swindle my company from me was coincidental, hmm? He and his little foremen built that castle on my daughter's grave."

The cool, parasite-infested air did little to steady him, but he managed to bridge the silence.

Silence, he had learned, always had its say.

"I told you I would be honest. Emotions, they're my cross to bear, too. I despise your family, and I despised your father. But I also respected that slithery old devil. Pete Cooney. got it. He cut out all the unnecessary sentimentality and he made a legacy. A damn solid one. _Your_ legacy."

"I never wanted it."

The slightly oversized, rumpled suit said different. Still every bit the little boy modeling Daddy.

"Said every man determined to make his own way….determined to do it all bigger and better." Adam pulled back. Gave the boy back his personal space. His thinking room. "Said it myself. But you know what? Legacies exist for a reason. You make it bigger, better, bolder, more revolutionary, but the point is that _you_ make it. You." He could have moved closer, close enough to touch the fish on the hook, but he opted to lean back further instead. "You see, Mr. Cortlandt, we have something in common, too. A stranger stole both of our legacies." To continue handing out that rope. " I say we get them back."

Together.

He didn't say the word. He didn't need to.

Adam rose. "Say hello to Opal for me." Just one final little reminder of how _deeply_ the rooster had invaded the henhouse.

Somewhere, the devil he'd spent a lifetime battling was either smiling, or unleashing a scream that would rattle Satan himself. Adam rather hoped for the latter.

####

The first thing he noticed after his eyes focused – aside from the dull ache behind them - was the lack of bars….and how irrelevant the absence was. An old warehouse would be his guess.

"You're not surprised."

Few things invoked that reaction. Fewer by the day.

"Can't say I am. It's kind of…inevitable, don't you think?" JR asked of his new jailer. His old debt-collector.

"Of course. I'm just honoring my half of the commitment."

The fact that she remembered did surprise him, although, really, it shouldn't. They'd made the promise before she was spirited away by her father and he by his mother - before the reality of life as a bargaining chip had secured its full hold.

It hadn't been one of those marriage covenants, and considering current circumstances, that wouldn't have worked in more ways than one.

Just a promise that in this year, at this time, if circumstances dictated – and oh, how they did - to….start anew.

With each other's help.

"You remember?"

"I never forget."

The intensity: a trait they shared still.

"Quite impressive job, by the way. Those inmates, they really earned every last dollar. And the guards on the payroll, nice touch."

He touched the bruises that had long since faded in some ways, not so much in others. He hadn't known which of his particular enemies had arranged his little prison lesson. It didn't really matter. When they had grabbed him again earlier today, he didn't put up a fight this time. A part of him could almost imagine that the injection…that it was…

The identity of his recurrent punisher had clicked as he had faded into unconsciousness. It made a kind of poetic…

Sense. "I think you're right," Bianca said. "About the inevitable part. There's always been a certain….oh, I don't know, parallelism with us, hasn't there? Shared mommy and daddy issues, shared lovers, shared children, shared…complications." She patted her wheelchair, almost a perfect match to his own, with a cold smile. "No matter how hard we try, you and I, we can't seem to stay out of each other's lives."

"Another time, another place, we could've been –"

"Don't you dare say it."

He would've smirked at her assumption, but somehow, that response didn't exactly seem like a good idea at the moment. He swallowed something bitter instead. "Best friends."

She closed her eyes, and for a crazy instant he could see that alternate reality that would never be.

"We share something else. See, I should congratulate you because you helped teach me something very important. You even helped me discover a whole new side of myself, maybe something that's been in my DNA all along, just like it's in yours. We're not made for the stable, and we're not meant for the happy ending. We're exactly where we're meant to be. Not to start, but to finish."

Bianca opened her eyes and picked up the revolver – the antique – settled on her motionless legs.

####

"If you are checking on your friend, please let us know she's all right. She refused to let any of our personnel help her."

'Friend.' It could be a strange, loaded word, especially in correlation to this particular relationship. Brooke thought of correcting the young personal trainer. Then she thought of telling the boy that he could forego the execution chamber look. Erica Kane would not come out of the dressing room door and stomp him with her high heels. Not now, at least.

Instead, she simply smiled, said "of course," and went to check on said 'friend.'

She couldn't say exactly what she was expecting to find. Maybe the mini-diva with high heel in hand, ranting about the base conditions of the dressing room. Perhaps an already-dressed, well-composed woman who would stroll by her with dinner invitation in hand and a well-placed Brooke-barb for the road.

The frail, small woman standing topless in front of the mirror, she did not expect. Brooke nearly excused herself quietly so that this sure stranger could have her privacy.

Unmistakable, yet different eyes turned to meet hers, and the fleeting illusion dissipated.

She had expected her companion to make a quick move to cover herself, but Erica Kane was all about reversing expectations, if nothing else. Rather, she seated herself on the bench and offered a silent invitation, or at least a non-fight. Brooke accepted, either way.

Erica placed her elbows on her knees as she studied her hands. In all her storied history with this woman, the one thing Brooke could always count on was the perfect posture. The ready-for-the-flashbulbs Erica standard. What she saw now was…different. That reaching, but nevertheless appropriate word again.

Different, and real.

As was the tiny smile now lighting her companion's features. "Go ahead and do what I know you've been dying to do…"

Her own words used against her, and Erica seemed to find amusement in the irony.

"Oh, do forgive me, Brooke. I forget that you're too much of a proper lady to tell me how ghastly I look, so please just grace me with how very sorry you are."

"Sorry? Sorry for what?" Brooke asked.

Erica moved her study from her hands to her companion. "Thank you for that, at least. And yes, I do mean it. Sorry is such an irritating and perplexing word in cases such as these, don't you think?"

"And it doesn't do a damned thing to make you feel better."

Some of the Erica Kane-fire returned, raising a bemused expression on its owner. "Why, Brooke, did you just curse?"

Brooke offered a smile in return. "Ask Adam just how well I can express myself when given the proper motivation."

"Touche."

They shared the briefest of laughs before the sheer oddness of their voices mingling in something other than a high-powered verbal duel got the better of them. A silence fell over the room afterward, providing Brooke many opportunities to leave. She had done her good Samaritan duty and 'checked on' her 'friend.' She had to get back to the office. She had to meet Adam for lunch.

She had to stay.

Even as Erica absently massaged the prominent scar on her left chest. Even when the proper words of comfort wouldn't come. Especially then.

"They've postponed the reconstruction procedure."

The words were low, soft, but clear. For the first time, she believed she was hearing Erica 's real voice, and it was…nice.

"And I should be ranting at the doctors and demanding their full attention, right? I should be hiring the best plastic surgeons in the country, because I am Erica Kane., damn it!" The inflection was slight, but every bit as powerful as its more animated, TV-ready counterpart. "I'm not this…this poor, fragile person with a bald head and one breast. I'm Erica Kane and my image is my everything." Her hand had settled over the scar, where it remained, even as her words gained more force. "But I see that little girl laying in her bed, I see a Christmas tree full of children who'll never get the chance to fall in love or take the world by storm or even to see another sunrise, and I can't really bring myself to give a damn about _this_." Her fingers clenched, leaving an angry red rim around the barren spot on her chest.

Brooke cleared her throat. "I want to tell you two things." Her mind needed no clearance. "Yes, I will. Whatever this girl needs." She answered Erica's small nod with one of her own. The exchange was all that was necessary. "And, please, in advance, kindly forego the remarks about me trying to increase my circulation numbers on your name." This time, a mutual half-smile greeted the words. "I would also like to tell your story. I believe it can reach our readership because you can inspire a reaction – both negative and positive – more than anyone I have ever met. You can inspire."

This time. Erica cleared her throat and looked down. When she saw that her hand was now dangerously close to Brooke's, she quickly moved it away. Brooke's half-smile turned full-blown. They could have all the 'when the chips are down, frenemy' moments in the world, but the line would _definitely_ be drawn at hand-holding.

"Brooke?"

"Yes?"

"The answer is yes for me, too."

The single drop of moisture hugging Erica's eye would've made a perfect photographic accompaniment. Her readers might have viewed it as an acquiescence to fear, sadness…an at-last moment of vulnerability from their idol of composure.

Brooke preferred to think of the tiny tear as a testament to something else.

To will. To strength.

To hope.

####

Adam's next visitor had the rumple, minus the suit. He'd known that one phone call would do the trick. This one, however, required a bit of a _different_ approach.

"Why have Dixie and the righteous Martin clan not entered their names in the grandson sweepstakes?" he asked, arms folded.

In his experience, Martins could never resist a good, old-fashioned lecturing opportunity.

Tad lived up to his name. "Why am I not surprised you see your grandson as some prize to win? It's the Chandler way, after all."

"You didn't answer my question."

Martin wouldn't sit on the bench. In fact, he seemed downright - dare the word be used - nervous? "Krystal is the only constant that boy has left in his life. She's been there for him from the beginning, through everything. And he has been there for her."

"Yes, through every assorted kidnapping."

As per usual protocol, that particular little nugget of truth was promptly swept aside.

"So essentially," Adam added, "you're using my grandson as some kind of band-aid for his unstable grandmother?"

"'_Our_ grandson," Tad emphasized. "They can help each other, more than any of us – me, Dixie, and most damn sure you – ever could. Haven's you done enough?"

The well-worn words were a tipping point. If Adam had one favored hobby in his youth, it was cow-tipping. So satisfying watching the useless lumps fall, and struggle in vain to rise again.

"Let me tell you, something, Martin. I am sick of taking responsibility for what he became. How much time did I spend with that boy in his formative years? You and his mother were too busy shuttling him back and forth between Pine Valley and Pigeon Hollow, in between your respective 'playing dead' stints, of course. You molded him into the quintessential Martin man: weak, sniveling, ready to crawl in a hole and throw pebbles at the slightest setback. Your precious daddy may have fared a little better than my daughter -" He wouldn't stop short, not now, even if it ripped him apart. "It wasn't enough for you to steal my other daughter, my Charlotte, but you killed Colby just as surely as if the gun was in your hand. And you killed – no, you _murdered_ – my son. I'll be damned if I let you and your ilk do the same to my grandson."

Adam composed himself. "But my son is not the only man you murdered, is he?" Summoned the only old devil who could make the one prancing away down under slink away, with ponty tale firmly planted between fiery legs.

"The park is so lovely this time of year, isn't it? Ideal place to reach a little understanding. It clarifies things." He took a hearty breath of the cleanest air in town. Leaning closer and casting his eyes down, Adam whispered, "Got those walking- over-the- grave-goosebumps yet?"

Hate-filled eyes greeted him. But oh, those righteous eyes would not share his downward glance.

"You're a -"

Adam grinned and stepped back, away from the bare patch of earth. About six feet of bare earth, by his estimation. "Yes, I am. And more. One title I have never claimed, though, is that of cold-blooded murderer."

A flicker, oh a flicker from Martin he'd awaited for the last three decades. And by God, he was going to savor it.

"I took the liberty of bringing along a little afternoon reading." Adam pulled the envelope from his jacket. "Something about being under oath, isn't there? Cleansing for the soul. I'm looking forward to your testimony, Martin."

After the mandatory stand of defiance, Tad took the envelope.

Adam never lost the grin. It was, after all, his trademark. His mark. "The truth shall set us free.'"

####

"I got the phone call after I left the airport, before – Part of me was just trying to hold on…that's what I told myself in my more…aware moments. I'd seen her. I'd reached out and watched her disappear myself, but I didn't trust Hayward. He never - he would never give me that chance. So I hired the PI and then I forgot because my head got filled with all this other junk. And that night….that night he called me with a lead, just a 'maybe,' but God it was enough."

"What are you saying, JR?" He jolted at her words, but he was also thankful for them. They kept him from going back. "Is…is Babe alive?"

"I got to hold her hand." His hand threatened to fill with a maddening softness, so he ran it over his own rough face. "And she looked at me. At _me_, like I was some miracle delivered. I got to hold her hand, and I got to watch her die all over again."

He looked into eyes that were now swimming with confusion and questions. Why? How? Had Hayward's God elixir finally outlived its welcome? He didn't know. He didn't wonder. He only knew one thing. Too little, too late. Again. Always.

Story of his life.

"You want an explanation or a reason? Give me the heads-up when you find it. You want me to relive that night? You think I deserve that? You're absolutely right, but I can't. It's not there, and believe me: that black emptiness, it's infinitely worse. What I just told you, that's my last memory of that night, and it's what's seared on my eyes every night when I don't sleep."

He pushed forward, until their legs were touching. Neither could feel the contact. Both could feel everything else.

"Do it." He motioned to the gun. "I managed to screw it up like everything else in my life, so you finish it." Pushed further. "It's inevitable." The words - their truth - on playback.

His voice wavered, but his gaze could not. "You can't."

"I have the experience, putting down sonofabitches like you." Neither could hers. "I have the motivation." She pushed the barrel into his chest.

He felt the cold steel. He felt…everything.

"Just, please don't take Miranda away from AJ. He needs her. They need each other. I don't remember much about that night, but the hate….the confusion….I know that so well. We both do. And we always tell ourselves it'll be different for them, because they're the ones who pay the price, aren't they?"

JR closed his fingers around the barrel. Settled the target over his heart.

"Let it end here."


	22. Chapter 22

So, it was a rather eventful week on the real-AMC front last week, wasn't it? Best of luck to the cast and crew as they continue on this new venture. Who would've thought we'd be able to say that a year ago?

Sorry about the extended break between updates. (That always seems to happen when JR and a gun are involved, doesn't it?) Since I'm snowed in today, I've gotten the chance to play a little catch-up. This chapter's technically two chapters in one. I think you can follow along alright, though : )

####

Times like these, he almost wished he'd opted for the prison bars. At least then he could have taken care of Junior in proper fashion. And no fancy concoctions to get the job done, either. It would've been the old-fashioned way.

And wasn't it all rather ironic? His ability to game JR's father and avoid that prison sentence had inadvertently led to the scum's salvation.

David threw his keys on the desk and eyed the sprawling file cabinet. After surveying the immense task that lay before him, he jammed his thumbs onto the ridges of his eyebrows. Acupressure: non-traditional, non-approved. His kind of treatment.

This particular treasure hunt wasn't going to be benefitted by all the fancy electronic advancements of the past few years. It could quite literally take months to sift through the mountains of decades-old paperwork, but what choice did he have?

He'd tried, he'd honestly made the pledge to end it: to put down the lyre before anyone else he dared care about was condemned…or before his head ended up in a river, like his project's namesake. Now, once, again, Orpheus would become his all-consuming reality. Given the circumstances, the fact that his ex-sister-in-law/ex-wife was now in possession of a powderkeg of information, seemed like small potatoes indeed.

David shook his head and left the file cabinet untouched. Right now, he needed to deal with the infamous Orpheus' last legacy.

####

The rusted door beat a frenzied rhythm, rival to any ashika drum. It was either the most fitting or the most twisted backdrop to his current predicament.

Jesse motioned to the two officers flanking the other side of the metal before promptly retraining his hands. Setting his aim.

Just another target.

Just another capture.

That's what it had to be.

He grabbed the door, and the concert grew quiet.

One of the other men could go in first. Less chance of…complications. Only a complete idiot would want to go in first, not knowing what was on the other side of that door.

Jesse nodded to his backup and entered the warehouse.

####

_"We both know what is going to happen."_

_He knew. He knew what she was going to say, and a part of him was disappointed. She was supposed to be different: the standard. His antithesis. And this was most assuredly a David Hayward move if ever one existed._

_Why? She'd been down this road before; she had already learned the price of the lies once. Now she wanted him to give her the roadmap again: the roadmap he had memorized by heart. _

_"Angie, I won't –"_

_'Be a party to this deception?' Joke._

_'Do that to them?' Since when?_

_"I won't say anything."_

Those words had sealed their first pact.

As expected, the coma had claimed her a few days later. While they laid his daughter in the ground, he sat with Angie Hubbard, in silence. When she began to slip, she had grabbed his hand.

Once again, he couldn't break the fall.

New Year's had marked the day when David was supposed to honor the second part of their agreement, if circumstances had not changed. But he'd never been an honest man.

Even if she hadn't given him that final spark – that final affirmation that maybe, just maybe – he knew that he would not make the injection. He wouldn't help her end her life.

Another thing about him people needed to understand: he never, ever left things unfinished.

Since the first time she'd regained consciousness, David had been forced to make the pact twice more. Each time, he told himself that some degree of memory loss was normal. Expected. They could count themselves lucky if the problems ended there and did not extend to atrophied muscles, bed sores, breathing difficulties...

If Angie Hubbard had proven one thing since they'd met, it had been that she was an undeniable fighter. That's why he couldn't let her give up. Not then.

Not now.

"Angie?" He shone the light into one eye. Responsive. Good. "Angie? Can you wake up for me, hon?"

Her lids fluttered. "David?"

"I'm here." He gently pushed her back down as she attempted to raise up. "Easy now."

She settled and looked at him with the clarity and the determination that would always distinguish her in his mind. He had to smile at that.

"David, you can't tell anyone. We know it's going to happen soon."

His smile died a little by the second as they – or at least he – reenacted a too-familiar conversation once again.

'I can't let them hang on to a lost cause."

Those words followed him when he stepped away to get some food. When he came back a few moments later -sliced apples in hand - to a still-clear, still-aware set of eyes, they grabbed him by the throat.

"David, you can't tell anyone."

She wasn't losing her old memories. Not at all.

She just wasn't making new ones.

He might've had time to wrap his head around this newest diagnosis. He might've even formulated some on-the-spot plan for dealing with Angie's anterograde amnesia. Or he might've beat a quick retreat out the door.

"Oh my God."

The stunned girl, however, blocked the escape route…and subsequently shot all the mights straight to Hell

####

"Gentlemen, what took you so long?"

Jesse didn't look for long, because then he couldn't see the expression that contradicted the light tone.

He couldn't hear the two unspoken words that wouldn't ever be enough.

He stayed back.

He stayed back so he wouldn't be tempted to finish a botched job.

The details of how Chandler managed to bust out of prison and why he would make a call and turn himself in just a few hours latter didn't…couldn't matter now.

Jesse busied himself with other details: the little formalities that would ensure JR Chandler would never see the light of day again.

A life for -

The smell slammed into his nostrils first before clenching around his gut.

_Oh,, God, not again. _

_Not again_.

Magical words, magical thinking minus the magic dust. Yet he couldn't stop repeating the words even as he opened the next door - this one extending its own sick invitation.

Jesse motioned again. The approaching faces of curiosity soon transformed - no, mutated - into revulsion as the stench took its full reign.

"What's happening?!"

He dry-heaved, forced the voice out, and dropped to his knees. Not from disgust or shock, though those were in plenty enough supply.

To stop himself. A few simple steps, and it would be so easy. Too easy to take the gun in his hand and -

The thump resonated as his officers dragged the body from its storage place.

####

_You can do this. Come on, come on_.

Her fingers rattled against the doorknob again.

"Oh damn, come on!"

When said door opened, revealing her frowning best friend, she immediately plastered on the kind of smile one might find on the latest bobblehead figure.

"Hi." Followed by a small wave. Inconspicuous she was not. "I..."

The arm fold. And the door lean. Just one eyebrow arch, and Greenlee felt confident that she was a millisecond away from a full-on confession.

_You can't tell anyone_.

David's directive: one she would've been fine with breaking…if not for the pleading eyes behind him: the ones that were no longer relegated to her dreams.

Greenlee cleared her throat and walked past Kendall, inviting herself in.

"I'm sorry…" She closed her eyes and prepared the lie. "That we didn't call and let you know what was going on. Ryan and I, we got a little…held up."

"Two days? That must've been one hell of a holdup. And it must still be holding Ryan up."

The words lacked a certain force Greenlee come to expect from the woman standing across from her. If she didn't know said woman better than the back of her own hand, she might even guess that Kendall was ready to…let it go.

"Emma's upstairs. I'll go get her." Followed in short order by a move to do just that.

OK, that did it.

From waking up to a reunion with her not-so-dead husband to now playing 'guess the latest crisis' with her BFF…

Except, really, wasn't this just another day in Pine Valley, USA?

"Kendall, what's wrong?"

The addressee turned and fixed her with a pointed 'tell me yours and maybe I'll be inclined to tell you mine' look.

"You tell me one thing," Kendall finally said.

Famous last words.

"If I can."

Famous last reply.

"What really happened to my brother when I was in a coma?"

Greenlee could say she most assuredly was not expecting 'that' particular question, so her lack of an immediate reply could be somewhat forgiven.

In fact, her lips were still forming their next lie when her cell rang. Her better judgment told her to put the phone back and face the firing squad in front of her. It just might be preferable.

She hit the button and was immediately greeted by Jesse Hubbard's voice. No nice formalities.

"Greenlee, can you please come down to the station?"

All business, but underneath…

One minute later, Greenlee was on her way to meet Pine Valley's police chief, best friend in tow.

And better judgment be damned.

####

"I understand."

Good. At least someone did. He sure as hell didn't.

Tad hung up the phone. Krystal had bought the excuse, or at least she hadn't fought it. The latter somehow worried him more.

"So, how did it go?"

He didn't wince at the familiar voice behind him. Not turning around, he offered: "I told her that I couldn't do it. That I couldn't testify."

He did, however, brace himself for the questions. Silence reigned instead.

"And she understands," he added weakly.

Weakness seemed to be the order of the day. He'd let the likes of Adam Chandler get him over a barrel. Worse yet, he'd let Adam make it real again.

Six years. In this town, secrets had a way of rearing their heads after just a few months. But it had been six ears. Almost long enough to convince himself that it had never happened. That he wasn't _that_ guy that did _that_ thing - that thing ripped out of some low-budget horror flick.

He had almost convinced himself that it was really just a B-movie, off-focus nightmare.

This town had a way of making nightmares come true.

When he turned, though, he was reminded how this crazy place could also hand out the occasional miracle. Like the walking, talking contradiction in front of him.

His miracle.

His wife.

Looking at him. _Knowing _him. Knowing but willing to make it not matter. He wouldn't lie to her. Wouldn't send them down that path again.

"Dixie, I -"

When the phone rang, he made a silent plea. _Don't answer_.

She checked the number. "It's the school."

After the shortest and vaguest of exchanges, she ended the call with an "I'll be there as soon as I can."

She met his eyes, and offered her own silent plea. One that had him grabbing his coat before she even said the words.

One that scared the hell out of him.

"We need to go now. Kathy's been in a fight."

####

He watched their lives literally flip by: all the chaos, all the struggle, and all the 'mess' neatly bound and not-quite-contained within the pretty, neat pages of an assessment report. He took the hand of the beautiful, amazing, crazy-sexy woman beside him, even as she took in a quick breath that the buttoned down official across from them couldn't see.

This…

This was worth it.

Worth traveling the thousands of miles.

Worth the stifling heat and humidity that made a cold shower seem like a pleasant but distant memory.

Worth being back in this place he'd tried so hard to forget.

Watching her smile at him even as she chewed her lip into oblivion: worth everything.

Jake figured the office would be full of pictures, crayoned drawings, photographs of smiling children with their new families: testimonials. But it was uniform, dull, tan - almost as if the desert outside had spilled into this room…had recreated these four walls in its image.

When the official spoke, it was equally dull. Non-dramatic.

Clipped English, but pitch-perfect.

"Mr. and Mrs. Martin…"

The smile didn't match, didn't line up…and Jake didn't have one damn idea what the next words would be.

Amanda's subtle squeeze telegraphed her thoughts., thoughts that had been brushed off as jokes when she dared speak them…thoughts that he knew teased her like some demented clown in the dark.

_Like mother, like daughter…_

_Schizophrenia….the ticking bomb…collecting its due right about now…_

_Gonna take one look and see matching mother-and-daughter strait jackets…._

_They'll never…_

_Who would?..._

He'd help her chase the clown away when he could. Even tied him down a few times. But like any jokester, any expert tormentor…

It never quite left.

He squeezed her hand back. Held on, and threw a punch at the clown anyway.

The official's smile widened. "Are you ready to meet your daughter?"

Jake traded his wife's hand for a full-body squeeze.

"Yes," she whispered into his shoulder.

Jake looked up, her soft words fueling his – their –fierce affirmation. "Absolutely."

KO punch.

####

He'd practically made a second home of the principal's office in his own misspent youth. The fact that the secretaries had been replaced with admin assistants and the notepads with computers didn't exactly ease the tension crackling up his spine.

The stiff chairs – the one constant – didn't help either.

"Kathy, this isn't going away."

Nor did his daughter's quiet response to her mother: "It's just….it's typical stuff, okay? I'm sorry. Can't we forget it?"

"No." At his slight nod, Dixie softened her tone. "Honey, just talk to us. What was the fight about?"

"Nothing."

Time for the tag-in. "Something." Tad scooted the chair closer. " Come on, Katie, you and me - we got each other's backs, remember? You got a problem…" He pointed to himself and winked "…I'm your guy, madam."

The faux-French didn't get its usual desired response this time. Still, she wouldn't look at him. Those pretty eyes, they used to tell him everything. Now, they had taken a different oath. And her voice got quieter, if possible. "They just said some stuff. It doesn't matter."

"Obviously it did. It does." A thought occurred to him. Or maybe a last straw to grasp. "If this is about AJ's custody trial -"

"It's not." Quick, abrupt. A particle escaped through the filter. "It's….me…it's the way…"

Dixie attempted to throw their flailing daughter a rope. "If someone's bullying you, honey, we'll talk to the principal immediately and -"

"No!...I can handle it."

Tad had the sick feeling the rope was just pulling his little girl down further

"Kathy, this is serious. We need you to understand that," he said, lowering his voice in spite of the fact that they were the only three current occupants in the office. "The principal thinks you were going to seriously hurt someone. He said you had a razor. He was afraid that -"

"I wasn't going to use it on them!"

The quiet frustration and anguish in those words screamed stop. As much as a voice inside of him was screaming that word too, his instincts were screaming something different. Bracing himself, he drove through the stop sign. "Then why did you have it?"

"Because I was going to use it on me."

Low. Swift.

The most effective - and damaging - gut punches always were.


	23. Chapter 23

I want to take the chance again to thank everyone who's stayed with this story, even when it gets dark. There will be a light at the end of this long and twisting tunnel...eventually. For now, though, gotta let the story live up to its drama distinction.

###

_What am I going to do?_

Staring at the flickering cursor that hovered over Adam Chandler's number, he knew one thing for certain…or two. Number one: he really needed a new pair of glasses.

Number two: he wasn't within close proximity of an answer to that question.

"Peter, hello."

The owner of that even voice was standing approximately three feet away, with precisely two files tucked neatly into the crook of her arm, and just the slightest hint of a smile on her face.

His own smile wasn't quite so subtle when he raised his head, confirming each assessment.

"Hi, Lily." Pete put the phone in his pocket and kept his hand there, trying his best to at least look the cool-casual part. For once today, he had absolutely no doubt what he was going to do. Something long overdue. "I was thinking that maybe…" The tiny frown between her eyebrows should've made his cotton mouth worse. Instead, it gave him the needed push. "Would you join me for dinner?"

The frown lightened just a fraction as her eyes widened, and before her steady gaze rested on the files in her arms. "We do have a lot of work to do for the project. Perhaps a work dinner could help stimulate our minds, but the probability for an accident is high, such as you spilling your drink on the documents." The fact that she attributed this theoretical disaster to him with such ease only made his smile grow wider. "Also, it would be rather late for a business engagement, so I am not certain of the feasibility -"

Quietly, he had taken the files away. Finally, she made eye contact with him….or at least looked somewhere in his general direction. Progress. "No business dinner," he said softly. Clearing his throat, he added with more conviction: "I would just greatly enjoy the pleasure of your company, Lily."

The frown in her brow had taken leave, replaced by the straightest of lines on her mouth. "Like a…date?" Perhaps for the first time in her life, Lily Montgomery had failed to utter a complete sentence.

Only that and a tiny twitch of the lips betrayed her calm demeanor.

Pete smiled again. It wasn't overly animated. It wasn't nervous.

It was genuine. "Yes," he said.

####

_What am I supposed to do with this?_

Given enough practice, even laying eyes on a reanimated corpse could lose the element of surprise.

The first thing Bianca felt upon seeing the newest Pine Valley zombie was not shock. No, anger was a better fit now.

When David pushed her from the doorway into an adjoining room, he should have counted himself lucky that she couldn't reach up and slap the hell out of him.

Twice, Erica-Kane style.

He did have the good sense to stand a few well-placed feet away. Unfortunately, that left his toes out of range as well.

"I won't even ask how you found me here, although I have a few ideas."

She didn't feel inclined to share the fact that she had tailed him following another little bombshell...one that somehow was not even top priority anymore.

"Before you say or do anything, please, just let me speak. Without interruption, although I know that'll be hard. And yes, you can trust what I will say. Believe it or not, you always could."

His hands were not held out in a defensive position. They were laced behind his back. He was leaving himself vulnerable. Exposed. She'd become a bit of an expert, or so she thought, at body language. David Hayward, however, had always defied any and all experts.

Something, though…something short-circuited all of the frenzied thoughts smashing their way through her brain. Even if she wanted to scream and rage right now, she couldn't.

She could only listen.

"I won't try to justify this, or the lying. I'll just give you the facts as they are, because that's what you deal in, right? After that, you can draw your own conclusions, like you ask your readers to do. You can understand, maybe a little. You can have me locked up. You can write the ultimate story. Or, if you need to, you can….you can hate me."

It wasn't fair of him. It wasn't fair of him to throw an impossible possibility out there. The opposite of love was always indifference, after all, and he knew…

He knew, even as he laid out every detail of Angie Hubbard's condition on that night and in the days after.

At some point, he had ceased talking to her. The words grew more contemplative. "They both have this thing I really don't get. Probably never will. She lies about being blind; he lies about their child's death. On the surface, pretty bad things. But somehow, somehow with them it's a noble sacrifice."

He stopped pacing and turned to her again.

"We never expected this, either of us. You know admitting failure has never been my strong suit, but we thought at the end of this journey that she'd end up like -" The cough and the sudden intake of breath could not be attributed to the dust floating around the room. "Grief, I think you and I both know a little about that….too much. There's a reason why the most prolific sociopaths like to inflict a thousand tiny cuts on their victims. When it's a sudden slash, at least you bleed out fast. It's…easier that way. She thought it would be easier for them to let her go."

"She…" Bianca had finally discovered her voice. Rusted. Unsure. Unacceptable. She bit the inside of her cheek until she felt…anything and tried again. "She seems okay now, so why can't she go home?"

_Why can't someone in this town have their miracle?_

David's next words were direct. "Because she won't remember seeing them again. She won't even remember seeing you in five minutes. In fact, she's probably already forgotten." He had easily slipped into doctor mode. "Some of my former patients have been experiencing adverse effects, and I'm hoping that Angie's condition is a part of those effects and not a product of her original injury. If the amnesia is a result of Orpheus, then thee may be something I can do."

An image of her sister immediately entered her mind. "Your former patients? What about Zach?"

"Have you noticed any abnormalities in his behavior?"

She looked away. At one time, she could have answered that question with ease. Not now. "I haven't talked with him, or Kendall, in a while." The memory of a breakfast date gone awry tugged. "There was some tension the last time I saw them."

"We'll get the answers."

She opted for biting her lip this time. "We?"

David chanced a few steps forward. "I told you this was your call. Whatever you decide, I will understand."

She thought he might actually mean it. Every word. "If I agree to keep this secret for now, and if _we _can still exist. I need to know two things first."

He didn't hesitate. "Okay."

And neither did she.

"Why did you lie to me – to all of us – about Babe?"

####

_What is she gonna do?_

"We can ask if they have one of those green bottles," he offered.

After an intense appraisal, Lily picked up the ketchup bottle and squeezed a gob of the concoction on her hamburger.

Her smile now rivaled someone who had conquered Everest. "My life skills classes have taught me the value of the color red. It is one of the colors representing our country. It teaches us to stop when we need to. It is symbolic of love…."

Pete studied his date even as she studied the dessert menu. And it wasn't the words of some great poet or the homespun, if-not conventional wisdom of his mother that fueled his next impulsive move.

It was the bemused voice of Adam Chandler still rattling in his head: _What'll it be now, boy?_

Pete's hand reached acros the table - quite against, and in conjunction with, his will.

####

_Now what?_

That one question embedded itself in every whir of green and every passing car.

She had convinced him.

'I'm not…I'm not as close as you are. She might feel more comfortable talking with someone who's a little more…'

_Distanced_.

No matter how many strides they had made in the past year, Dixie knew that it would take time before she and Kathy shared the kind of bond that Kathy and Tad had built. Now, she was actually hoping that lack of a strong bond would help her reach her daughter.

The only problem was that she had been white-knuckling the steering wheel since they left the school, and Kathy had never found the dull scenery outside the window more fascinating. It would be easy to turn on the radio and let that tickling at the back of her mind creep forward. Take over. She could stay on autopilot long enough to get Kathy home, then turn over the reins to Tad and say she tried.

God, she had to try.

"When I first came to Pine Valley…"

The unexpected words didn't startle her, even as they spilled from her mouth. Neither did their wistful, almost nostalgic tone. They just felt…right.

"I went to live in this big mansion. Every kid's dream, right? People milling around in tuxes and dresses, even on a Saturday. Crystal and china plates. They even had a cook!" A sideways glance confirmed that she now had at least one listener. "And everyday, I felt like a fish out of water."

From her maddeningly limited vision, the slightest shift. With every particle of willpower. Dixie kept her eyes focused forward. Not yet.

"I didn't dress the right way. I didn't talk the right away. And I surely didn't act the right way."

"What happened?"

The question was quiet, but the words clear.

Dixie smiled as she made an unexpected left turn.

No, a right turn.

"Someone…" The grin took on its own life at the image of a familiar face covered with a beak and feathers. That face may have been younger and more dashing. In one key area, however, the current incarnation had that charming rogue beat by a country mile. This key area was manifest in the eyes of one little girl. "Someone helped me see that I had known the right way all along. It was my way."

They pulled into the gravel patch: the sole parking lot for the small farm.

"My truth." Dixie swept a hand to the tiny collection of animals. "Sometimes, after work – after the kids have challenged me to their fullest – I'll stop by here. See that nice fellow over there?" She waved to a stout figure in overalls, who gave a hearty wave back. "That's Jimmy. He'll let me hang out with the roosters. I even got to name one of the little ones. I'd like you to meet him, all of them."

"Why?" Kathy twisted the pages of her school folder.

"Because whenever it's tempting to forget, this place reminds me of home...of who I am right here, where it has always mattered." She placed a hand over her chest. "And I want you to know me, Kathy. Just like I want to know _you_.'"

The hidden plea had driven all roadmaps away.

Just them, and she hoped it was enough.

Kathy's hands shook. Dixie resisted another, far more primal impulse to reach out and still them. Still shaking, those hands opened the folder and removed a folded piece of paper. Without looking, Kathy pushed the paper to her. Dixie unfolded the yellowed edges and smoothed out the well-worn wrinkles.

It was a sketch. Etched in simple pencil, but beautiful nonetheless. She knew at least one of her daughter's secrets: Kathy was an artist in the making. The figure's face was turned away, but something in its stance was equal parts bitter and sweet.

She traced the soft lines of the boy's profile and felt a stirring inside.

Maybe it was all just… "Kathy, is this about a boy? Did some of the girls pick a fight with you because you liked -"

Her daughter's newest gift stopped the words that she knew, even as she uttered them, weren't the answer. This time, Kathy's hands were not shaking. And this time, a pair of terrified but determined eyes were trained on her.

A new sketch. The boy's face was now revealed. A beautiful, familiar face with the same set of terrified, determined eyes.

"It's me, Mom." This time, soft fingers tucked under Dixie's chin, navigating her toward those eyes. "It's my truth."

####

(_September 2011_)

_If you knew that hope and despair were paths to the same destination, which would you choose?_

A question posed by one of his favorite tenors, and a question he had a damn hard time answering as he closed the door on his newest patient.

Part of him had been grateful for the distraction of staging another body swap from the hospital. Villainy, if nothing else, always kept one busy, what with bribing the right officials, forging the right documents, and choosing the right dark corridors. It was the art of immersion at its finest, and his hand was always as steady as when it clenched a scalpel.

Now, that same hand couldn't manage the keycard. It ducked, weaved, clattered, and made a storied run around the slender lock.

"Damn it!" His uninjured hand snatched the card angrily and promptly produced the same results.

It was just the silence, punctuated only by the steady, maddening drip of an errant puddle somewhere in this sprawling facility: this monument to genius and scientific advancement that could not vanquish a leaky faucet.

It was just the quiet, …completely absent of life.

Just the quiet that was wrapping his fingers in a vise and squeezing them mercilessly.

Not those whispers underneath, those indistinguishable voices from another place, another -

David jammed the card through until the green light blinked. His entire weight collapsed against the door as the first sob wrench itself from his throat. The second pummeled at his chest, clawed its way forward. Only the quaking fist crammed into his mouth stopped its onslaught.

His darting, clouded eyes searched for something, anything. They fastened on another door….another lifeline.

Pushing himself up with force, he stumbled to the opening. A sliver of light spilled through. An ounce of hope.

He had to see her.

If he just saw her, just held his hand out and felt the slow breaths warming it –

David fully opened the door to Babe's room.

(_Present_)

"In reality, hope is the worst of all evils, because it prolongs man's torments." David finished his recollection with the first coherent thought that had laid claim to his mind following the discovery of his daughter's dead body. He looked up at Bianca, whose own silent thoughts had laid claim to her. "You know who said that? Frederick Nietsche: acclaimed German philosopher, sermonizer of the "death of God." Unlike most great preachers, he got to see his mores realizes, though, when he lost his mind and his life shortly thereafter at the ripe old age of 55."

"He was telling the truth. He was there. He -"

It was muttered, more to herself than to him, but it jolted him nonetheless. "Who was there?"

She had obviously not intended for that musing to slip out, but she covered her surprise quickly. "No one."

"You never told me how you found out about Babe."

"It's not important right now."

"Like hell it's not, Bianca."

"David, you're content to keep your secrets, so I think you can leave me one of mine, for now." She leaned forward and he thought for a moment she was going to deliver the slap that had only been promised in her eyes earlier. Instead, she laid her hand over his. "How did it happen?"

David did something he'd probably ever done one other time in his life. He shrugged. "I told you…" He tried to sniff the cracks away, but the rough, raw edge in his voice could not be dulled. "I told you that all of my successes – all of my wonderful miracles – were only ever outweighed by my failures. I don't know what happened. Maybe she just couldn't….hold on anymore. I just know that my greatest failure happened that night, when I lost two daughters that I never really had."

She didn't offer him apologies or shoulders. But her hand never left his own. And, like before, it meant everything.

He only awaited her second request. He was expecting it, in fact. and he couldn't do it again. No matter what, he would keep his eyes trained on the tiny granite specks in the floor. At least then, he could lie more honestly. Only the subtle squeeze compelled his eyes up again.

"Please, David. if there are any more secrets, tell me now."

He looked into those eyes that had, in spite of themselves, managed to let that last sliver of trust and hope slip through. That always, only - in spite of the odds - wanted honesty. Just honesty.

"I -"

"It's okay, bro."

He never had a chance to make the choice. The man in the dorrway had, once again, saved him from the task.

Or perhaps condemned him.

His gaze shifting between his brother and the first, and last, daughter he ever had, only one thought claimed David: _What in the hell will we to do now?_


	24. Chapter 24

Happy belated St. Patty's day, early Good Friday and Easter, spring break, first days of spring, and all other manner of holidays and merriment you may be enjoying this time of year!

And now, just another day in PV...

####

Joker's wild.

Opal's brainchild, of course. She had even dressed the part.

Ironically, the new rule hadn't benefited the bigshot business moguls at the table. Ruth had gathered a rather nice royal court, though. In fact, she gamely laid down a few more 'chips' as Opal raised an eyebrow and pushed her own 'chips' forward.

One of their two male players also slid a bountiful bundle to the table's middle.

With Joe's addition to the weekly game, Stuart now had a partner–in-crime, though. Ruth leaned back and challenged her husband with a small grin. His eyebrows furrowed before he shook his head and dropped his small stash into the pile.

Marian, who still hadn't quite mastered the difference between a full house and a full glass of wine, did the same.

All in.

In this room - this house - major moves and deals were doled out not in gold or green, but in cookies and cream. The stakes were just as high, though.

This place was their take-away. Their no-fly zone, where fancy weaponry was left to the 'experts.'

When circumstances were at their darkest for Ruth, her faithful trio had been ready with a plate of Oreos and a collection of smiles.

A half hour later, Ruth offered the sole remaining Oreo to her grateful friend as they washed dishes.

"You know, I think we shouldn't be so fooled by those pinchable cheeks of Stuart's. I'm suspecting he might've -"

"Cheated?" Ruth gave a knowing grin at Opal's surprised expression. "I know."

Folks in this town really shouldn't assume that she was the pushover fifties sitcom matriarch prototype. For example, that rather interestig whisper-fest between Opal, Stuart, and Marian a few minutes ago hadn't gone unnoticed. "What were the three of your over there conspiring about?" She gamely caught Opal's slipping dish. "You're not planning on a hostile takeover, are you, now?"

Opal only shrugged. "Maybe."

Ruth just leaned in, winked, and whispered, "Honestly, I think that company might be the better for it."

Opal studied her for a moment before pairing an ever-widening grin with a nod, and their talk was soon consumed with their most chaotic long-term project: the co-parenting of one Thaddeus Martin.

After they fell into a comfortable silence of dish-drying, Ruth's attention lingered on her husband, who was still engaged in light conversation with Stuart. The past year had taught her to count every blessing, and she wanted nothing more than to count each one with Joe.

If only he'd let her...if only they could find the magic again.

Shaking away her thoughts, she put the last dish in the cupboard. "I was thinking, maybe you, I, and Marian should -"

Frowning, Ruth turned to her cleaning companion, somewhat shamed by the fact that she had only now noticed the prolonged absence of their other guest. "Where is Marian?"

####

The coffee had to be the liquid version of sandpaper. At least one stereotype had been given its due diligence in this place. The requisite stale box of doughnuts was persona non grata, however. She settled for the taste of the iron ball that had settled in her throat.

They'd spent the ride over in silence, save two exchanges.

The first came when she had asked Greenlee about the call.

"Oh, God," her friend had mock-gasped. "They must've found out about that time you and I did our own form of bridal brawling. That's why I had to bring you along, so they could get two for the price of one with locking us up." With a smile and a wink, she had expertly _Greenlee'd_ the situation. Commanded it.

Kendall, however, hadn't been so commanded. "Do you think we should call Ryan?"

"I can't. I don't know where he is."

She'd said it matter-of-factly, and maybe it was just that now: an everyday fact that Greenlee didn't know the whereabouts of her fiance, and vice versa. For once, Kendall had vowed to stay out of Greenlee and Ryan's latest relationship drama. She had learned the hard way that two people had to stand together, or fall apart, on their own.

Maybe this was the fall-apart.

But with that last exchange, the ball had begun to take form. When Greenlee had turned on the radio to some cowboy crooning about his lost hat, lost beer, and lost lady, it grew. And now - as she sat down in a hard plastic chair beside her best friend at the police station - it had reached critical mass.

Kendall had to remind herself that this wasn't a waiting room at the hospital. They weren't nail-biting over some looming test result or lasering the door waiting for the surgeon to make his declaration. They weren't –

Damn it, this place still needed some freaking magazines teeming with big-haired models or titillating gossip about the latest celebrity split. They needed fodder.

That's when she got her first glance at the wrinkled brochure touting the benefits of local law enforcement. Okay, she could work with this.

They spent the next several minutes partaking in the time-honored tradition of poking relentless fun at bad eighties hairstyles….only topped by the ultimate ode to fashion disasters: the shoulder pad.

Greenlee's smile this time had less of a desperate glint. More of a spark. Kendall quietly replaced the brochure her friend was holding with a warm hand and squeezed. They waited in the easiest silence either could manage.

Together.

####

No gasps. No faints. Not even a "damn you!"

Just a...

"Bianca, I—"

Cold shoulder.

Leo softly clasped his brother's shoulder, halting his stumbling attempt at an apology. "You think you can give us a few minutes alone, David?"

Sighing, his brother gave one last glance toward the corner, nodded, and left.

With his own sigh, Leo turned to the girl who had turned away from him, from everything.

The ultimate cold shoulder.

His eyes were compelled to the chair - to the the too-real symbol of a an ever-accumulating collection of tragedies.

Slowly, he approached this girl that really could have used, if nothing else, her best friend.

Except that best friend had only been, up until a few moments ago, another feature in the collection.

_I'm so sorry_.

"Come on, I don't look that bad now, do I?" Over ten years, and the best he could manage was a bad joke. "I mean, I know David's got this reputation for being a Frankenstein, but….no bolts in the neck or square heads...that I know of, anyway."

He waited for a question, a demand, an affirmation of his bastardhood, or even a few tire marks on his chest.

While he was debating whether or not he should kneel down, touch her shoulder (he had this twisted image of twirling her around and seeing a blazing skull straight from some horror movie, or, worse yet, seeing nothing), he got his response.

Just not the one he was expecting.

"It's a myth."

He looked down, as if he himself might vanish into a plume of smoke. "What?"

"Frankenstein's monster," she said. "No bolts. No flat head. Just cinematic effects. He wasn't ugly, except to those who didn't understand. He wasn't brainless. He could read Shakespeare. And he wasn't born a monster." She stopped for a moment. "Life just made him that way."

Of all the ways he could have pictured this going, he had to admit the impromptu lit lesson was a surprise. It was crazy, and it shouldn't have made sense.

Then again, neither should their friendship.

But it did.

And it did.

Always.

He grinned, something else he hadn't been expecting, but something he savored. "Thanks for letting me know there's hope for me yet."

"How so?"

No decisions now. No choice. His hand just found her shoulder. "Because the stuff up here's a sonofabitch to change. Life, though, that's doable. Just gotta make it better,"

She didn't pull away, or flinch.

"You're not my first reunion in the past day, you know. I saw Greenlee earlier. And she kinda caught me."

"And you're still alive?"

That brought a chuckle. "Yeah, I think she might've softened in her….wiser years. But I think maybe she understands." He grew serious. "I stayed away…I stayed away because –"

"You thought it was for the best."

God, hearing it like that, it sounded so pat, so cliché, so everything he had vowed he'd never be.

"I'm just gonna spare you the speech, Leo."

And he was thankful for that, even as he realized just how much the past ten had changed that girl he knew. Even as he realized that despite those changes - despite the very different woman he was touching for the first time in those ten years - some things would never change.

"It wasn't worth it," he said to her. To himself. "Giving up my life -" With force, he swallowed back the stinging moisture. "- giving up who I am, I gave up on myself. And, in the process, I gave up on everybody who needed me here."

"You did what you had to do, to survive. To make it."

She was so still, and her words so damn controlled, yet she was running like hell. He squeezed her shoulder gently, because he wasn't going to let her. Not anymore.

"No, I only thought it was preservation. In the stone-cold, no-holds-barred reality, it was really the opposite. I was committing the world's slowest suicide."

Neither of them was going to run again.

No skulls. No sneers or snarls. No flaming eyes ready to shoot fiery lasers. Just a pair of wide, brimming eyes. And trembling lips balanced somewhere between a soaring heart and a breaking heart. For just a moment, the scales tipped in his favor.

Smiling back, Leo hugged his best friend.

Some things would never change.

####

His dinner guest folded the napkin across his lap, took one sip of coffee, and straightened his jacket. Not for the first time, Caleb wondered what crazy twist of fate – or ornery old jokester – had put him here. Sitting at a table with nice, orderly menus and being served by pimply-faced kids that put on their best BS-smile for a couple of extra bucks. Actually using the words "dinner guest."Granted, he'd rather be kicking back a few at the local dive, but once he'd discovered his amigo over there could actually drink him under the table, he'd opted for a safer meeting ground.

Looking at the clenched jaw currently whitening the face of the man across from him, Caleb had a feeling the lack of liquid sledehammers was either the best idea he'd had in a while, or the worst. He turned to the object – or rather objects – of sudden scrutiny at the other end of the dining room.

It would seem that cousin of his was finally working up a little courage. He should have probably turned back around and given the kids their moment, but he wasn't gonna stand for either of them getting hurt. If he detected even the slightest flinch from that girl then, cousin or not, Petey-boy wouldn't have to worry about answering to anyone else. He'd get a –

When the slight but unmistakable smile broke out on Lily's face, the muscles in Caleb's legs relaxed in turn. When the girl's other hand settled over Pete's, Caleb blew out a breath he didn't even know he'd been holding.

With a smirk and a head shake, he reached back and grabbed the arm of his companion. That tense arm was already on the ascent.

"Easy, now." He turned back to an expression he'd seen twice before. Once, right before the owner of said expression had handed over a briefcase, swung his stool to the braying jackass on the next barstool, and simultaneously swung a fist that had sent the latter crashing to the peanut-littered floor.

The other time Caleb had had witnessed this particular expression: when he realized he might've just underestimated his opponent in the battle for a certain infuriating woman's affections.

"She's okay," he offered. "You got to see that for yourself. And he's a good kid, who happens to be crazy about your daughter. But he's a good kid. A respectful kid."

"He's a Cortlandt."

"And so am I."

"Am I supposed to take that as a ringing endorsement?"

Caleb let the smirk he'd been stifling take full reign. And, quite in spite of himself, so did his friend.

Not drinking buddy. Not cordial enemy. Not club members in the thriving 'I survived Erica Kane' coalition. Not colleague with mutual interests. Caleb had always prided himself on calling it as it was, and that's what he had to do now.

Somehow, maybe in some crazy parallel universe they weren't aware of yet, Jackson Montgomery had become his friend.

And if the man studied his legal briefs with the same enthusiasm he was currently showing to his drink, he should have a happy clientele.

"She's - her whole life's going to be a learning process. The world's longest job interview. And she's been hurt before by somebody who was just trying to be 'good' and 'respectful.'"

Caleb scratched the itch that hadn't claimed his nose. He could put together a case in the courtroom, but when it came to the messy, everyday, "people" stuff – not so much. He hadn't spent twenty years hanging out with the bears for nothing. In fact, this had already been one of the longest conversations he'd had with Jack.

"You said her life is a learning process. That's true for everybody, though. Some of us may have a helluva lot longer learning curve, and, believe me, I can understand that. Can't do much learning though if we don't take the chance, though. Living is learning, and the best gift you can give that girl is the chance to live."

Jack raised an eyebrow,

"Just a thought, anyway," Caleb grumbled, wishing like hell he could duck into a bathroom right about now. No more playing armchair Yoda.

"I'll take that under advisement." Jack had put on his lawyer's voice, but Caleb could almost detect a 'thank you' underneath.

But the beautiful thing was, that would be the end of it. They could go back to talking about the Phillies or that new clunker on the lot down the street or the official reason for their latest get-together: his consultation on Liza Colby's case.

"Speaking of children, have your heard from your -"

"No." Or maybe not.

Damnit, Jack wasn't playing by the 'menfolk' rules. And, it appeared. he only wanted to continue throwing out the rulebook.

"I just thought that since -"

"The only difference between now and the last time you asked was that it's been six months instead of three. Six months since my – since he's said a word to me."

At least Caleb could take cold comfort in one thing. If the boy's reception to him had been cold, it had been downright frigid to that snake Chandler. Soon enough, Adam would wish –

Change of subject, right now. "I have been meaning to ask you something."

Jack nodded., but Caleb detected a slight hesitation in that nod.

"Is Erica being back in town going to be a problem?"

It wasn't that he was worried - well, mostly not worried – but Jack needed to take the heat of the microscope for a bit. He was genuinely sorry about Dorothy's condition, but he knew from firsthand experience just what a force of nature that lady was. Another thing he knew from firsthand experience: the unmistakable draw between that lady and his cousin's husband.

They spent a few seconds engaging in a staredown at the OK corral.

_She's fine. She's going to be fine. I know it._

_She's still my friend. I'm going to be there for her._

_I love my wife._

None of the thoughts were spoken. Yet in the time-honored tradition of men the world over, each proclamation found its outlet, boiled down to one simple word: "No."

Caleb's grunt did his talking.

_You'd better be telling the truth. You can ask Adam Chandler what happens when you hurt my family_.

When he watched Pete disappear into the bathroom, phone in hand, those words echoed.

####

_He can't know. But what if? –_

Pine Valley's reigning police chief did not give her a chance to devise an imaginative answer for that question.

She'd hoped his face would've had that professional mask, that it wouldn't match the slight hitch in his voice when he had called her..

She had hoped that the mask wouldn't look so damn patched-on….and in danger of falling to the floor at any moment.

"Greenlee," Jesse nodded to Kendall. "Can we talk alone?"

A greeting and a dismissal, all in one. She reclaimed Kendall's hand. Hell, no.

Whatever _this _was, She was gonna have back-up. The best.

Jesse just nodded again. "OK, but can we at least –"

The swirl of activity surrounding her that she'd done her best to ignore – to white-noise – seemed to congeal in a thick molasses now…one that was bearing down more with each second.

"Just say what you need to say, Jesse." With each word, the fingers entwined in her own tightened a little more.

"Greenlee, we – I – identified a body earlier today." His neck muscles tensed. He had wanted to look away. She knew the feeling. "When is the last time you spoke to Ryan?"

So Ryan was working on a case for a client, and he stumbled onto a crime scene. Maybe even witnessed it. She moved toward the door she knew a little too well - to the interrogation room - but the grip on her hand tightened. She jerked away from the grip, annoyed. Why was Kendall trying to hold her back? "Is he in there now? He's making a statement, right?"

She was sorry. Sorry that she had ever doubted him. Sorry that -

"Greenlee –"

Why wouldn't he stop it with that damn voice? "Just let me see him, okay? Why'd you call me if I couldn't see him?"

And damnit, if Kendall didn't let her go now, she was going to give them a reason to put _her_ in the interrogation room.

"Greenlee, we found Ryan at an abandoned warehouse." The small gasp from behind sent a jolt up her back. "I'm so sorry."

"Sorry for what?" Now...now they were doing it to her. Making her sound...unsure. Scared. One thing she sure as hell wasn't. "You found him and you brought him back here so he could make a statement."

Now he was giving her that look, that damn look she'd seen too many times to count in the past year. And he wouldn't – he wouldn't –

_No._

"Let me go, Kendall!" She wrenched her arm away and grabbed the phone, jerking it nearly from its cord. Jesse made a concurrent grab for it. "You get one phone call in this place, right? At least the criminals do, so -"

Something took hold of her, and try as she might, she was whirled around again – her focus forced on a different face. …one full of –

_No, no, no._

"Kendall,' come on, don't you get it?" The phone rattled in her hand. She tried in vain to steady it. " I'm going to call David. He can fix this. I know he hates Ryan, but the two of us….he'll –"

"Greenlee." Jesse was one thing, but this face, this voice...she couldn't take. She wanted to cover her ears and stomp her feet and sing the national anthem. This time, her inner diva wouldn't cooperate.

" He's gone, honey."

She just wouldn't look in those eyes anymore. Those wounded eyes that were reaching out. Wouldn't let them try to make her believe things that weren't true. She'd never do that again.

Never.

So she turned to reason. To logic. To…

_No!_

"No, Jesse." Her head ached with each vigorous shake. "You should know better than anybody. And Ryan's done this before . He came back, just like you. Just like -"

His hands lifted to her, then fell. Good, good, because he sure as hell wasn't going to give her the _comforft_ pat.

"Greenlee, I was the one who found him. The -" He stopped, and his eyes were searching for something, too.

He did know better than anybody.

"The odor helped me find him." Each word – each jab – was soft. Punctuated. "Nothing could be done for him."

And with each one, her legs grew more traitorous.

Two pair of hands from behind stopped her fall.

Her collapse.

"I can't…"

"Shh, I know. I know." Whispered, broken words.

But Kendall didn't know.

She didn't know that sorror, or even shock, were not what overwhelmed Greenlee now. Only crushing...guilt.

She didn't know that Greenlee's first thought after the call had been about someone else.

She didn't know that Greenlee could, in fact, do this again. She knew the manual by heart.

The one thing, the one tiny little thing, that Greenlee could not do was cry.

####

He looked back to the door he'd just exited and seriously considered the merits of standing guard over a slumbering woman who'd soon awaken ready for another round of 'keep the secret.'

Given the alternative waiting behind door number two, that might actually be the more attractive option.

He indulged in just a crack, to assess his chances of safety.

"I always thought you and Maggie –"

"We did. That …didn't work out so well either."

He braved another inch, and was greeted by an old yet very familiar sight. His brother sitting beside his best friend, chatting as if the rest of the world hadn't fallen in on itself.

Just when he was thinking that maybe he should be grateful for small miracles, a pair of eyes pinned him to his exposed spot just inside the door.

Bianca adjusted her chair, pushing away slightly from the open file cabinet.

For Leo's part, he simply smiled and motioned to David. "Come on, bro. You've gotta get your hands dirty, too. We've got a lot of work to do." As he looked to Bianco, the smile broke into a boyish grin. "But at least now we've got backup."

The coil in David's stomach unfurled, just a fraction. Just enough.

"The best," he agreed, stepping inside.

####

"Where's Marian?"

"She must've….well, she must be in the ladies' room."

His friend still hadn't learned the art of the poker face, but Joe figured that he would let Stuart off the hook this night. He shuffled the cards absently. "I've got to confess something, Stuart. We all had our doubts about you and Marian in the beginning, but I'm glad to say we were wrong." He smiled when Stuart's face lit up. It was too rare a sight these days, and he missed it. "You two…you've made the fairy tale real."

"You just never expected the fairy tale to include the evil witch getting a happily ever after."

Joe fumbled the cards at the startling – and astute – observation.

"It's okay, Joe. I know what everyone thought about us…about her. And some people probably still do. They wonder what I'm doing with someone like her, and just as many probably wonder how she ended up with a simpleton like me." Stuart help up a hand before he could protest.

In some ways, Joe had woken up to a whole new world. Or, at least, the same world..with a slightly different perspective.

"But you're right," Stuart continued. "The people who matter know the truth, and they support us." And then, just like that, that beaming smile Pine Valley knew so well flared up. "And I'll cherish every last bit of this fairy tale, happily ever after or not."

"I just wish…" Joe's gaze glided over to the amazing woman washing dishes. Such a simple thing, such a familiar thing. Soft hands now covered with fine lines, but everyday….everyday, he still wanted to take those hands and bring them to his lips. But if Stuart and Marian were the topsy-turvy fairy tale, he and Ruth were the reliable, comfortable matriarch and patriarch template. "I just wish for one day I could make her weak in the knees again." Since he'd awakened, they'd both been wrapped in a cocoon of overcompensation and stifling safety.

Stuart's grin was now overtaking his face and that tell-tale twinkle had returned to his eye. Without warning, he took Joe's arm and rose. From the corner of his eye, Joe saw the same scenario playing out between his wife and Opal.

"Stuart, what are you doing?"

"Just looking for Marian," he said, pushing Joe along, towards the the dining room.

Within moments, he was standing side-by-side with an equally astounded Ruth, as both gaped at the new dining arrangements courtesy of one "dahling" maître d'.

Wine glasses sparkled in place of cards. Oreos wee usurped by one single, aromatic candle.

An amused whisper found its way into his ear: "Make her weak in the knees."

Then, footsteps quickly retreated, and they were alone.

Joe turned to his wife and held out his hand.

Joker's wild: the best of the night.

The best of the year.


	25. Chapter 25

And an asteroid smashed into the earth and they all died.

FIN

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Well, I had to give the day its due ; )

And on with the latest happenings in PV...

####

The sight could still make her shake her head and smile: one of the few things that could these days. It wasn't exactly that she was surprised. Despite their obvious differences, both men had this core of good, old-fashioned decency.

It wasn't the fact that she had played the awkward semi-but-not-really relationship limbo with each of them that made her hesitate in wishing them a good evening. Normally, the gesture would be met with a light joke and a bit of mild flirting.

It was the fact that the atmosphere surrounding them had noticeably shifted. But, seeing as how she was getting to be accustomed to brewing storms, she braved the elements anyway.

"How's it going today, gentlemen?"

Jack tapped the table and smiled. His fellow diner, on the other hand, was content with a grunt. "Well," the former finally offered, "after looking at nothing but this grizzled old face and my daughter's date for the past half-hour, I can say the change of scenery is nice."

Krystal surveyed the now-empty table, only recently vacated by one of the world's sweetest pairs. "Jack, they're -"

"If you say adorable, I'm docking your tip. And yes, I know how he's good and smart and just the world's bestest-ever young gentleman. But that still doesn't mean I have to like the fact that he's being all gentlemanly and sweet and smart in the vicinity of my little girl." Jack paused for a breath while Caleb's napkin housed a rather spirited cough.

"I was going to say that they're gone now." It took every effort to hide her own smile as well.

"Oh." After appearing properly shamed for all of a hot second, Jack folded his hands and took the last hatchet to Krystal's threatening smile. "Krystal, I did want to let you know again that if you need any assistance with Adam's case, I'm here. And I'm sure the same goes for Caleb, too." Another grunt sufficed for agreement at the other end of the table. "Family law may not be our area of expertise, but we can –"

"I appreciate it, Jack. Thank you. But we have it handled."

What was another lie? Suddenly, the next table looked as if it could use a thorough cleaning.

"Don't worry. Chandler will be handled soon enough." Caleb had been busy pushing around his food this whole time, but she really shouldn't have been surprised at the soft, yet authoritative interruption. The man had that way about him.

Before she could ask for elaboration she probably didn't want, a new customer strolled in: the proverbial stranger in a strange land with his three-piece suit amidst a sea of blue jeans and tees.

"Speak of the devil," Krystal muttered, while simultaneously seating her two current customers with one stern but appreciative look. "I'll take care of this."

#

The supply room was cramped, uncomfortable, and smelled of cheap beer and detergent. It was actually the perfect setting.

"What do you want, Adam?"

"I just thought I would give you the chance to bow out gracefully now." The fact that he could still give her that know-it-all grin - as if her were in the boardroom, or another room – made her head pound and her blood boil. Or maybe it was just the fumes. He leaned in closer, leaving her no breathing room. "Things aren't going so well, hmm?"

"I can break any stallion down." Make the most of what you're given. With no place to go but forward, that is exactly what she did, until that five hundred dollar aftershave practically stung her nostrils. "I should think you would remember that better than anyone."

His head rested precariously against a large sack of flour. Just one tip of the hand….the image brought a genuine smile.

"Why don't you just go away?" Part petulant child: that part, she got. But his eyes were also - some might say Stuart-like – she knew that rarely seen side well, and it was all Adam.

He needed an answer. And so did she.

"Why do you need me to go away so much?"

And there it was. The cold steel, the knife. The blockade. But not quite. Not –

"Because you and your family have done nothing but destroy us piece by piece since the moment you slithered into town."

She wanted to reach up and slap, throttle, pound the unsaid away.

"I destroyed you?" She couldn't - couldn't give it that incredulity. It was strangled by something more raw, more real. "My family's gone!"

"So is mine, lady!"

And there it was, laying on the ground. Not bleeding. Not bruised. Just….there.

The diverging dreams - the same where it mattered. The hope, the wish that for their kids, _for them _things would be different. They would be better.

A shared, shattered dream. At one time, they would have picked up the jagged pieces together. Braved the cuts.

Now, they each had their respective broken fairy tale in hand, ready to cut some more.

"He's all I have left of them. You can't….you won't take that away."

_Ditto_.

"Watch me."

_Yours, mine_. _Never ours._

Eye to eye, face to face.

No escape, no more hiding.

She reached out, brushed his cheek (a thumb hovering over one parted lip), grasped the slender object directly behind him…and swung.

The subsequent shouting, smashing, and sounds of general hell-raising soon drew a crowd at the doorway, led by Jack and Caleb.

Krystal eyed the broom handle and the 'great and powerful' man cowering beside it.

She turned to Caleb. "Can you call 911? This man just destroyed my…" _Last bit of sanity. Hope. Life_. "Property."

"My pleasure." Caleb disappeared into the gaping mass, a grave smirk dancing at the corners of his lips.

She looked back down to a face full of hatred, full of…

Something she could not, would not, think about.

Not if she wanted to keep that last shred intact.

Mutual destruction, delivered the way only they could.

####

It was the tattered postcard he'd kept in his pocket when nothing else in his life would or could keep. The two figures, one just a hair taller: shadows silhouetted against a cotton candy sky. The tiny red barn straight from the farm of Old MacDonald was the best backdrop.

The smaller shadow's hand was extended, touching a small, feathered mass.

He could never see the faces then. Even on that day he had tried the most, when the picture had been balanced on a broken arm. But now, as he moved closer, the darkness melted away, revealing familiar shapes and eyes that danced in his dreams. His wife. His little girl.

His together-forever.

Tad cleared his throat and stepped into the waning light. "Hey, I got your message. You decide to let the old man join in on this girls'-time?"

Kathy's hand dropped from the animal she'd been petting. Her other hand visibly strengthened the tight hold it now held on her mother.

He looked to Dixie, waiting for a cue. She, however, appeared to be doing the same, only with their daughter.

A part of him hadn't wanted to let the two go off on their own….hadn't wanted to let go. The bigger part of him knew that a large, defined line existed between wanting and needing. When Dixie had texted him, revealing their location and asking him to join them, he'd been relieved, almost as if this place would wash every trouble away and allow them to leave, reborn.

Baptism by poultry.

It was only when he reached down to pet said poultry and received a literal hen-peck for the effort that he fully realized maybe the trial had just begun. His two companions shared a slight chuckle at his misfortune, and for a glorious instant, it was rightside-up again.

Then came the shared look.

Kathy turned to him and spoke her first words since he'd arrived.

"Dad, can we talk?"

And it all shifted again.

Tad searched Dixie's eyes, and for once, he couldn't find what he was looking for.

When she nodded and stepped away, he searched for a smile instead. "Sure thing, kiddo."

Kathy took his hand and led him to the small pond. Father-daughter time, one on one.

Normally, and especially lately, he would give his left arm for this time. But watching his daughter intently study the ripples in the blackening water, he wondered how much she'd have to give. She tossed a pebble onto the surface, and it scored a direct hit, fragmenting her topsy-turvy reflection.

"When my first mom and dad left….when they died, I didn't really understand why they had to go away." It was still a confused little girl's musing, but the voice of someone much older. "When Aunt Julia died, I was sad, but I didn't wonder anymore." Too old, and it broke his heart. "And when you found me, when you told me what had happened to my mom, I knew the reason why people kept leaving." She stopped, and he couldn't be sure he ever wanted her to start again. "It was me."

"Honey, no –"

"Dad, please, I just…I just need to - You remember when I gave Krystal a hard time? "

He could only give a rueful smile. That particular period was a little hard to forget.

Kathy tossed another pebble. This time, it sent a jagged line between their watery counterparts. "It wasn't really about her. It was – I just felt like I was lost all the time. Like I didn't really belong here, or anywhere. Since I can remember, I kinda felt that way. Krystal, I thought she was trying to take away the one thing – the one person – who did make me feel like I belong." The pause, and the baby blue eyes now regarding him, pierced his heart a litte more. In the worst way.

"You."

In the best way.

He dipped a shoe in the water, sending a ripple that joined with his daugther's. They watched it travel into the darkness, a tiny sliver of light.

"When I was not much younger than you, I came to live with your Grandpa Joe and Grandma Ruth. Before then, I only had a passing idea of what a family was….what belonging to one was like. Your grandparents didn't change that by adopting me or by giving me their name. They changed it by doing one simple thing: loving me, no questions asked." A chill snaked its way up his arm and into the tips of his fingers. He warmed the chill with the closest – and most reliable and enduring – source: his daughter's hand. "You'll always have a place, a reason, and a home, Katie. Always. You'll always be my little girl."

"No, I won't." She tried to pull her hand away, but this time, he wouldn't give up.

Mad scientists or family curses or death itself be damned, he wouldn't ever let her go again.

He wanted to capture the small, tiny drop of water that fell into the pond, but he wasn't fast enough.

"Do you want to know why the other kids hate me, why..." Her hand was cold, clammy, and trembling. It was his turn to be the warmth. The source. "It's because of this."

Steadier fingers brushed closely cropped hair.

"And this…" Those fingers lingered on the nape of her neck before moving swiftly to sweep over baggy jeans, blue sneakers, and a black hoodie. Her hand hovered over her chest, and the tremors were back. Only when she settled her palm on the center of her chest idd the tremors stop.

"And this, mostly this."

No pauses, no breaths. No turning back.

"I want to be a boy, Dad."

_Ring._

_Ring._

_Ring._

Far away, too far, but he grabbed the bells anyway. He grasped them for dear life.

"Hello."

Formal, polite. Appropriate.

His friend made no such formalities. "Tad, it's Jesse. I thought you should hear this before the news crews pick it up. JR tried to escape. He's been caught, and there is…other trouble. If you and Dixie could come down to the station, I'll fill you in on everything. I realy need to go now."

The click cut off a response he didn't have.

He hung up the phone, numb, disoriented.

She... Kathy had turned away.

Hating himself with every movement, he did the same.

Signaling for Dixie, he said flatly. "We have to go."

_Our children need us_.

####

"You've got a visitor."

They were words JR had become accustomed to not hearing. And given the current situation, words he wasn't expecting to hear again for a good long while, if ever. So, when the guard delivered this news without so much as a raised eyebrow, he figured one of three options.

The first….he could only hope it wasn't the first, because he didn't want to ever look at her again and do _that_. It had bled him dry the last time.

The second: he was about to play the newest round of public defender bingo.

The third option might've been the best. The genesis of his current predicament. Maybe she had arranged another rendezvous, and maybe she'd actually finish the job this time.

When his visitor did enter, it was the same dark hair and the same blazing eyes he'd been expecting. But something…

Something about this woman was different. It always had been.

Those eyes should've born the same hatred entombed in his former captor's. Somehow, they didn't.

If he could lose himself in a boozy haze just one more time, he might've even seen a different emotion: concern.

"Why are you here?"

Jinx.

One collective question with, he suspected, about a thousand different answers.

Give or take the one that mattered.

Cara's hands had wrapped around the steel bars, so his….they had to find a new refuge.

Ladies first.

"Haven't you heard? I made my grand escape attempt. Didn't work out so well, though." His hands found that refuge, or something resembling it, under his chair. "But hey, what's another ten or twenty?"

"It's getting thrown into the general population…or worse."

He shrugged, training the smirk. He'd spent years perfecting it. "Maybe the cancer'll take care of me first."

And there it was again, that flash of something in her eyes that shouldn't exist...shouldn't matter. "That's partly what I'm doing here. Your results are back."

He forced it. He would damn well keep it in place. "Well, don't keep me in suspense, doctor. How long do I have?"

"Oh, I would say another fifty or sixty years." He must've...he must've conceded, because her grip on the bars - and that look - eased. No, softened. "Aside from an uptick in your blood pressure, you're perfectly healthy."

The sharp intake of breath was not planned, but it was an affirmation.

Of life.

And oh, how it sliced.

"Healthy? Every day I want to drown at the bottom of a bottle. I'm….I'm only sober because I have to be. Maybe being aware, maybe living and breathing every second is my real punishment,"

"Lose the damn martyr act, JR." The ferocity was something he'd expected from the beginning; something he didn't expect now. "You have a second chance to make it - make _this _matter. You owe it to my brother, to all of them, and you're not going to piss it away. I'll make sure of that."

The whitened knuckles likely matched his own face right about now.

She toyed with the bars. "I know you didn't break out. What happened?" Her eyes were a direct hit. "How did you get here?"

The rote response - _Just by being me _- died on his lips.

Bianca and he hadn't mapped out the plan for his reentry into the system. In fact, after his challenge went unmet, they hadn't uttered a word. She had dropped the gun. He had picked it back up, given it to her again. Not another challenge. Just a…choice.

There were no apologies or pleas. They both knew that the time for those had long since passed.

When she left, he had picked up the phone and dialed three numbers.

To end it.

He should've remembered that some things weren't meant to end. Not really.

"Why does it matter?"

_Why do you care?_

And some questions were never meant to be answered.

Before she could open her mouth, his entourage arrived.

"We are ready for your transfer, Mr. Chandler."

Back to a bigger, bolder set of bars. Back to potentially face a brand spanking new set of charges, with one major, mysterious addition.

Funny thing was, he didn't want a phone call right now or a quick peek of the trees before they _aided _him into the van. All he wanted, all he ever wanted really, was an answer.

The truth.

The oncoming commotion in the corridor put a halt to all wants, wishes, and pipe dreams.

"I'll have your badges for this…..I'll -"

A moment.

One snapshot.

Frozen in time was one familiar image...his first glimpse in over a year.

Maybe his last.

JR held his father's gaze.

A thousand words, no words, and every last paradoxical emotion in one tenuous connection.

And with one shove and one blink, the connection was broken. Gone.

Like it had never existed at all.

Just a ghost in the night. Fleeting, but always haunting.


	26. Chapter 26

Just three more weeks until we revist PV again. and hopefully get some answers. I thought the recap/promo video posted this week was well done, and gave an interesting potential peek into things to come.

As for things to come in this version of PV, it is, unfortunately, another funeral day…

####

Five funerals in five days.

It sounded like the tagline for some bad, ill-advised Hollywood high concept movie. As he sat in another hard wooden pew and watched another rank-and-file of the people he was supposed to be protecting, all he could think of was how this had become their reality.

Each person, just as they had at the memorial just a few months ago, took a familiar seat and assumed a familiar position in this well-worn ritual. The faces were largely the same, with a few additions - like Ryan's brother Jonathan. Word was that if Jesse had been on the force a few years earlier, he would have gotten to know the guy quite well.

Before, during that week from hell, those faces had slowly moved from reddened eyes and puffed cheeks to numbing blankness. It was as if each passing day, each new coffin, each hastily arranged memorial represented a different stage in this town's collective grief. And he had put the final touch on the final bid for the acceptance that never quite came on that last day, when he delivered the eulogy for Angela. That was also the day he said goodbye to the little girl he had once called a daughter, as Maya apologetically moved herself and Lucy away for a _fresh start_.

Jesse then, as he did now, wished her luck, because if he knew one thing, it was that fresh starts were the true endangered species.

Greenlee had taken pains that _this_ time would be a celebration…or at least an attempted deflection of the latest blow. But every joke was forced, the light laughter canned and bitter, like expired tuna. And every story, every reminiscence was a reminder: a creeping _bump in the night_. When the uptempo rock and roll song began, even the erratic drum beats dripped with desperation, pounding the silent room.

And when a different source of pounding frenzy appeared at the back of the church, it was almost a relief. Because at least this source had found a passion, a purpose. A reason. Meeting each hardened gaze, she was the life in a room of death.

But for the first time in a long time, when Jesse touched her, it was a touch of restraint.

"Now is not the time," he whispered into her ear.

"Then when is the time?" she whispered back, before adding a louder, "Actually, now is the perfect time, Jesse."

"You are dishonoring this man's memory." He made one last half-hearted grab at decorum, at easy, knowing all the while this was anything but.

"I'm the only one honoring it!" she hissed, her words directed at the room….and at the short ball of fire heading her way.

_Not good_.

The irresistible force met with temporary resistance, however.

"What does this do, Greenlee?" Liza swept a hand around the room, until her finger curled in an accusation. "We dab at our eyes, we put on a fake smile for the memories, and we wax poetic about how they're in a 'better place,' and all the while the next victim, the next family, the next town is put into the crosshairs." Somehow, she had jerked herself from Jesse's grip. Or maybe she hadn't needed to. "Let's make this matter," she said. To Greenlee.

To all of them.

"You want to use Ryan's death as some kind of political platform? You want him to be the posterboy for your latest cause du jour?" Greenlee scoffed. "That dye has effected more than your hair, counselor."

With just one quick survey of the room, he knew that particular barb might be a firecracker in comparison to the grenades he saw in some eyes. This wasn't gonna devolve into a debate on gun control or birth control or cruise control. Not today.

As he pulled Liza from the hostile crowd, she managed one final parting shot: "Until we all meet again."

Jesse pushed her out into the cold, where both of their quickened breaths battled in the frozen air. He considered following her when she turned and stalked away. The insistent beep redirected his focus, though, and subsequently shot all his plans to hell and back.

He pulled out his phone, read his latest message, and promptly cracked the screen in two as it met the pavement.

_Tell us what you know, or you'll be revisiting the funeral home sooner than you think._

Someone had made a prophet out of Liza Colby.

####

Bud.

Classic. Basic, with a kick.

He liked to think there was some kind of symbolism hidden in there.

Leo lifted the can.

He also liked to think the ghostly clink he imagined was not so much imagination after all.

"To you, man. It was always…" He'd considered downing the whole can and getting a little lost in the buzz. He settled for a sip instead. "Interesting." To say the least.

It was funny, in a twisted kind of way, because when he heard the door open, he wheeled around in the office chair, smile on face, ready to greet his old drinking buddy with a '_how the hell have ya been_?'

When he saw the semi-widow, the ex-wife, the girl who always defied all labels, sweeping in instead – ever the force of nature – the smile dropped, but that crazy-twisty feeling didn't.

It only twisted a little more.

She swept right on past him, one hand clutching a phone and the other scanning the room for something she obviously couldn't find. Something she might not be able to find anywhere.

"You know, this place could really use a good interior decorator. The gray, the white, it's so….uninspired."

Before his muddled mind could formulate much in the way of a response – maybe he'd indulged in the beer a little more than he thought – she whirled around to him. Except not exactly _to_ him. Her attention was mostly focused on the phone, which she was stabbing with manic enthusiasm.

"Where's David?" she asked, not bothering to pair the question with so much as a glance.

"He's…not here." Every word was measured, and he could pretend like that was because he realized this conversation needed to be weighed and evaluated carefully. Or he could admit that his response was just him flying by the set of his pants, on instinct.

"I need to talk to him now. It can't wait, because there's already something else on my agenda for today. I've got a company – a gnat – to crush."

"Greenlee, what's this about?" He slid closer until he was right underneath the phone. Right into the path of avoidance.

Her eyes flickered, but she held tightly onto the normal, just-another-day with both manicured hands.

"I just need to let him know that I really don't have time to play guinea pig. I think I'll be fine. But you can tell him that, so I'll just –"

Leo didn't grab her arm. All it ever took was one touch. Another constant, another no-change.

"This is over, okay?" This question that was anything but brought back a bit of the old ferocity, the Greenlee fire. Still, she didn't move.

"I'm so sorry," he said.

She pulled back only slightly, with a slight chuckle. "Sorry for what, Leo?"

A rhetorical question she would willingly answer for him.

"Sorry for your bad decorating sense?"

When his finger found that place – that hollow in her thumb – quite against his own will (if he was in the business of lying again), the pull became a push.

"Sorry for defying Death himself when others can't? Sorry for being just a little bit glad that your replacement has been banished for good?" The bitter smirk gave way to a gasp. "I'm sorry, that was –"

"Cruel? Yes, it was."

But she wouldn't be Greenlee if it wasn't….if she wasn't trying so very hard.

"He was my friend, and I missed him too. I never got a chance to see him again and make things right." _To give him a fair fight._'"I'm just sorry for the chances I never got, and for the chances the two of you will never get. Mostly, I'm sorry that my friend is gone."

They hung in the air, those words, battling with gravity.

He had her full attention now. And, as she rolled her eyes to the left (left for truth), he almost wished he could give it back.

"If anything, be sorry for the fact that while he was being murdered, while he was taking his last breath, all I could think about was you."

The small victories she had managed in this battle against herself didn't matter, because she was losing the war quickly.

She wasn't the only one. He knew logically it wasn't the right time. He knew he should just back off.

But logic had always been his enemy, especially when it came to her.

He rose and his arms reached out. Instinctively. Naturally.

She jerked away, swiping ferociously at her eyes and snatching away that last bit of warmth that still lingered where she had been.

"No!" Her finger sliced through that warmth. An icepick. "I don't get to do _this _with you!"

As the door slammed seconds later, that icepick crashed to the floor.

Shattered, actually.

####

Red tributaries.

He'd long since scrubbed them away, but the deposits were always there. Hiding in plain sight. In a way perhaps only Lady MacBeth could understand.

One tributary remained broken. Maybe he had discovered the bridge when he discovered her, his family.

This disjointed trubutary smashed into the main source, into the shallow, short river with its one major branch. He'd accepted the stream, and so many times, he thought he'd reached the moment of that divergence….the life-altering in the lifeline.

He might've been wrong.

Zach wished for the palm reader he had once employed in a long-ago location, a best-forgotten time. Magic and spells were ever-so-much more attractive than the cold, hard wand of reality.

He closed his fist and dug into his lifeline. Turned it red again.

When his eyes focused, he convinced himself she was just a vision: a dark accusation. Yet he could never deny the compulsions – some equally dark, some countered by the brightest light he would ever know – that could only claim him in her presence.

She crossed the room, his wife - and every bit of black fabric, every dropped purse, every discarded, cramped shoe accentuated the quiet: his own familiar cross to bear.

He, for once, for always, would have to succumb first. "The boys?"

"Spike wanted to spend some time with his sister, and Mom wanted to spend some time with Spike and Ian. So she took all the kids for ice cream. I think they could use the distraction, especially Spike."

She stood over the table. Unmoving.

A few hours earlier, it had been filled with covered dishes and tiny suits and carefully arranged flowers.

Now, it was…empty.

When he rose, the stings and pricks covered his legs. They slashed away the numb that had been drowning him. Temporarily, at least. If he'd learned one thing, it was that the greatest affirmation of life was pain.

Was just feeling.

It's why Spike's slow retreat into himself after they had told him about Ryan worried him so much. Zach loved that his boy shared his affinity for hockey and lazy Sundays on the sofa, but there were some ways he never wanted Spike to take after him.

He approached her, resting his palms rested on shoulders that didn't quake. Didn't shake.

Didn't acknowledge.

One touch and she could crumble.

But she would not.

A pale face, a steady chin, and dry, piercing eyes turned to meet his own. _You should have been there_.

She didn't say it.

Yet the words echoed off of every wall.

_You should have cared_.

He could explain…

He could explain how he cared just a little bit more than anybody congregated around that coffin.

He could explain how he couldn't be there and stare into the face of the man he'd hated and respected in equal measure.

He could explain how he couldn't mourn the friend he may very well have murdered.

So he opted for his one reliable, his faithful standby: stoic silence.

His wife, however, had other plans. "I know, Zach."

He closed his eyes, because of course she knew. She knew him, better than anyone ever would.

So he would not hide anymore. He would look into the eyes that could stir his very soul, and give the other half of that soul the only thing he could right now.

Truth.

"I know what you did to my brother."

She walked away, depriving the killer of his confessional.

Leaving the defendant to his gallows.

His hand could only rest on the table, palm up.

Not for the first time, Zach wondered what tales a dead man's hand could tell.


	27. Chapter 27

Wow, just realized it was two years ago today when The Annoucement happened. It's really amazing how much things can change. Hope always springs eternal : )

####

"Are you sure you wanna do this thing?"

Frankie returned a quick, reassuring kiss from his wife before answering his brother-in-law. "I'm thinking this beats the alternative plan."

Reggie shrugged, a slight smile tugging at his lips. "Hey, it seemed like the easiest solution."

_Sure, if I wanted to get pegged as a potential pedophile_. He didn't say this about Reggie's suggestion that he just approach William in the park. It was a favored location for the boy and his adopted mother, Frankie had learned from the PI Randi hired.

He opted for a simple 'thanks, but I'll stick with Plan B' instead.

He was already dressed for the part, anyway. Pressing down his scrubs, Frankie gave Randi a more lingering parting, and he savored the two simple words whispered into his ear: "Good luck."

First thing on exiting the car, he found a complement to his wife's encouragement. He plucked the shamrock and walked up to the brick building, taking in a breathful of freshly mown grass.

Releasing the breath slowly, Frankie went to meet his son for the first time.

####

"And spare me the lecture."

Her preoccupation with resetting the yellow tape prevented the shrug. "Lecture?"

Yasmin's new partner (in-crime) didn't bother to look up. In fact, since she'd found herself in the dual role of photographer and chauffeur today, Yasmin hadn't really gotten so much as a sideways glance.

"Yeah, the one I know you, Ms. Morals and Ethics, have been dying to give about contaminating a crime scene."

She couldn't help but bite back the smile at that particular observation. There were obviously quite a few 'miscalculations' Ms. Montgomery had made about her. "Compared to some things one could do, this is child's play, as I believe they say." She would leave it, and the subsequent eyebrow raise, at that. "Well, I did want to make one small suggestion." She leaned down and dropped the flashlight - complete with a few lock-picking additives - into Bianca's lap.

"This might make things easier next time."

Bianca opened, then quickly closed her mouth. She had at least robbed the other woman of her typical quick-witted response. The alternative response was a turned chair. An unwillingness to admit that maybe, just maybe, a little assistance was appreciated…maybe even respected.

How could Reggie have ever thought that? –

The room – this otherwise unremarkable four walls of gray – grew quiet as they were reminded of its one point of unforgettable.

Bianca was still, her eyes fixed on the fading chalk outline.

Sometimes, the outlines weren't so white, or so neat. But a part of them always remained, etched into the earth.

Clearing her throat, clearing the images, Yasmin moved beside Bianca. "You were friends, weren't you?"

Her companion shifted ever-so-slightly, perhaps clearing her own images. "Yes." The response was short, abrupt: a warning that she didn't heed.

"It must be difficult for you -"

"We came here to do a job, so I think we should get to it."

And there it was – the sharp tone Yasmin was coming to know so well.

"Then what exactly should we do?" The sharpness was creeping into her own voice, and she tried to reign it in, but this…this woman made that a little - a damn lot - difficult. "I just mean that the police have already combed over this area. They even have a suspect -"

"It wasn't -"

It seemed as if they were taking turns reigning things in.

"Wasn't what?"

"Nothing. I just think…I _know_ that there's more. How did I not? - Ryan was here for a reason. He was working on something, and that something..."

Yasmin supplied the obvious conclusion to that assertion. "Got him killed?"

The lack of a response this time was all the response she needed.

Bianca was obviously braced for an extended argument, but she wouldn't get one. Somehow, crazy as it might make her, Yasmin believed what this equally crazy woman across from her was implying.

"What can I do?" she asked.

A part of her enjoyed throwing Ms. Montgomery off-guard. It would keep their partnership… interesting, at least.

"If we find something, then you can snap a few shots. Otherwise, you can be the lookout."

"You mean go stand in the corner and wait on you?"

"However you want to look at it."

The small smirk made her reevaluate the merits of said 'interesting partnership.'

####

"You wait by the door and I'll…look at these." The hand wave toward the clutter on the desk didn't exactly fill her with confidence.

Amanda crossed her arms. "How about _you_ stand here and _I'll_ look at _those_." Her quick eye flick to the locked cabinet tucked behind the room's lone potted plant garnered an eyebrow raise from her husband.

"Maybe you should've gone into business with my brother." Jake approached the plant and gave the small box behind it his best physician's assessment, complete with hands on hips. "But it's -"

One flash of the hairpin that had materialized in her hand, and he just bit his lip, shook his head, and gave an 'after you.'

Two large brown eyes filled her mind and intensified the steady beat in her chest, Those eyes also stopped her hand mid-pick.

A pair of arms instantly wrapped around her, paired with a soft nuzzle to her neck.

She settled back into the embrace. "I just, what if it's –"

The arms tightened. "It is, babe. Just not in the way you think." A quick brush of lips didn't send the expected chill, but rather a warmth radiating down her spine. "You think this adoption won't happen because of you, but I know that it _will_ happen because of you...because of your tremendous, awesome capacity to love. To be a mom."

Simple words, and coming from anyone else they might have just been the equivalent of a shoulder pat and a 'there, there.' But when she turned to look into a different set of brown eyes – ones that never wavered – somehow, all of the 'what ifs?' and the 'what nows?' died an instant death, awaiting resurrection for another day.

The well-worn – well-loved – picture now rested between their palms. It captured the small owner of those amazing brown eyes that still captivated her heart. For now, this photo was their only link to the little girl they both already loved.

"Let's do this," Amanda said.

"Yes, let's." The voice held a well-schooled enthusiasm and – God, maybe she really was losing it - amusement.

The agency official stood in the doorway, and the face that had become so familiar to them shifted just for an instant, as if temporarily stripped of its mask, its -

She really needed to stop doing this.

"I am most anxious to assess the reason for this requested meeting, Mr. and Mrs. Martin." Each inflection, she had no doubt, perfectly aligned with the local dialect. A bit too perfectly.

And that subtle glance toward the hidden cabinet. Did he know what they had been planning?

"Well, allow me to get straight to the point then, sir." Jake's tone sharpened on that last syllable. "Weve had enough of the red tape. We were supposed to meet our daughter days ago, by your very words." His hold on her hand grew tighter.

A little case of good cop, bad cop never hurt.

"Listen, we recognize how lengthy this process can be, and the difficulties it must bring." She let her observation settle before continuing. "We're just so anxious to welcome the newest member of our family. I am sure a family man such as yourself can understand that." She forced the smile and the requisite sugar on top.

"Indeed I can, Mr. Martin." The man smiled himself, one no doubt designed to put them both at ease.

Or to let their guards down.

Both missions failed utterly.

"Which is why I am pleased to inform you that I have arranged for transportation that will take you directly to the child." He paused this time, for what effect she couldn't - or didn't want to - think about. "And this time, you will get what you deserve. You have my word of honor."

Somehow, that pledge didn't exactly put her at ease.

As they were ushered out the door, the iron butterflies in Amanda's stomach did not flutter.

They pounded.

####

The steady stream of kids was a godsend in a way, because the consistent collection of runny noses and skinned knees helped dull the edges. He settled into a comfortable, familiar rhythm of light-hearted conversations paired with routine checkup protocol. The few times he had to give a shot, he had even managed to coax a small grin from his reluctant young patients.

He'd almost forgotten that he was here under the guise of volunteer work.

The girl with the braces and the wide eyes currently inspecting his stethoscope – future top-of-the-class med school for sure – had only managed to make him remember his daughter, sleeping peacefully at her grandparents' house.

After Frankie saw her off with a wink and a Spongebob band-aid, he turned to the two boys lightly wrestling at the front of the line, each with a wide grin on his face.

The smaller boy stepped up.

And made him remember everything.

Wavy, coarse hair. Aiming for dreads. Not quite succeeding, just yet.

Slightly hooded dark eyes that could hold a million secrets, but projected only intense, focused light.

A baby face fighting to grow up…and a single small dimple that served as the ultimate line of defense. So much like –

And two thick lips trying for indifference, trying for the tween disdain of anyone over the age of 25. Betrayed by that traitorous dimple.

Frankie absorbed it all in seconds, so that he could remember always.

He would remember how smooth brown skin perfectly melded with his own when he touched his son for the first time.

He would remember how every test, every knee-knock, every routine procedure slowly chipped away the doubts, the fears he had harbored: no bruises, no paleness, no black circles or fidgety hands…

No lack of caring.

He would remember listening to a steady, strong heartbeat and a voice full of the same.

He would remember how, for a few minutes, they had bonded over the fascinating, completely world-altering subject of extreme skateboarding.

It was their first father-son talk.

It would be their last.

At day's end, Frankie watched William approach a tall man in work boots. The tiredness in those eyes evaporated when the man put a hand on his son's shoulder. And despite his best efforts to remain cool, William immediately eased at this man's touch.

At his father's comfort.

Frankie took the shamrock from his pocket and placed it on the table before leaving.

Most of all, he would remember the smile.

####

"Assalamu alaikum wa rahmatullah."

Yasmin stepped from the one clean spot she had managed to craft in the room. The prayer was not just a requirement or an obligation, but a reprieve from the dark surroundings...and a reminder of why she was here.

She could see the curiosity and the questions dancing in the eyes that were watching her now, but if Bianca actually wanted to get to know her, to be the girl Reggie had always described, then she would have to make the effort herself.

Instead, the ever-faithful reporter returned to her intense appraisal of every crack and corner of every wall.

"If I have permission to leave my post, then I could help, you know."

"You take pictures. What do you know about? –"

"About secrets? About lies? About seeing things a thousand lifetimes couldn't erase? About wanting to do something, to –" It was her time to turn away. "No, I wouldn't know about any of that," she finished with the last ounce of breath she could muster before it all…

It got quiet again, and she couldn't – wouldn't let anything but the positive feelings the prayer had invoked fill that space.

Something else filled it instead.

"I'm…"

She didn't wait for the apology. "Look, I'm just a little on-edge since Reggie's been out of town. I know he's helping his family, but it's still hard. That's all."

Yes, that was all, if she didn't include the memories best left as just that. If she didn't include the meetings she now had to take alone with her lawyer/father-in-law. If she didn't include the tense nature of those meetings, or the related subjects she couldn't discuss with anyone except the one person who was miles away – especially not with the one person who just might understand better than anybody.

That person finally spoke again. "I would…" Bianca looked down before continuing. "I would appreciate your help."

After a long pause, Yasmin nodded and moved forward. "Well, I'm thinking that the best place to hide something..."

"Is in plain sight."

A first-time sight accompanied Bianca's statement. The genuine smile made Yasmin sorry that its owner kept it locked away so much. It deserved a better spotlight.

Together, they dug through the small opening. One minute later, they had retrieved a USB stick and a sealed envelope.

"It looks like we may have our story after all."

"Ryan's story," Bianca added softly.

A slight shift teased the corner of her eye again. Yasmin had learned long ago that these shifts were the most dangerous kind.

"Excuse me a moment," she said, with a casual move to the door.

"I just need to…" She pulled the rain-slicked, struggling girl inside. "Welcome our visitor."

####

As the few scattered buildings gave way to endless desert, that tell-tale muscle in his jaw tensed.

For her part, the lining of her stomach was well-bruised. The dirty jeep lurched over another dusty patch, settling them with a sick thud after a few seconds. Amanda wiped her hands on a once-white shirt now adorned with dark streaks. The thick coat of greasy moisture on her palms was promptly replaced with a fresh coat.

"We're getting further away from the town." Jake's comment was addressed to one of the two silent figures stationed in the front of the van. Since they'd begun this journey what seemed like hours ago, she had not distinguished one feature of their current companions save two cleanly shaved heads….and two matching, pulsing veins.

"Where are we going?" This time, the words were clear, direct. With an edge.

"To the girl, of course." The voice was full of dirt, gravel, and the rapidly rushing darkness of his surroundings. His home. "I think you know the path well, Doctor."

The man occupying the right seat turned slightly, affording Amanda her first glimpse of a jagged scar etched around two eyes that made a primal, dark promise.

The cocked gun provided a more modern, concrete deliverance of this promise.


	28. Chapter 28

We're taking a turn to the business end of things this week.

I'm thinking no update next week, as we'll be prepping to take an alternate route into PV at that time ; ) I'll take the time to do some careful construction on the next leg of this journey, as it is an important one...with the requisite twists and turns, of course.

This journey WILL be finished, though, in due time! (knocks on wood)

####

While the cats were away, the tiger would play.

_This_.

This was the playbook for how to deal with a couple of backstabbing ingrates. And she didn't even need ledgers or red markers. One knockout product and one slick PowerPoint presentation should do the trick.

She put the finishing touches on said presentation and transferred it to the drive that would transfer cosmetics' latest hot commodity to the necessary movers and shakers

Randi and Amanda wanted to prove themselves…wanted to waste time in classrooms with blue-haired old crones teaching them what Greenlee had learned through hard work and more than a few ill-timed kitchen disasters.

Fine. Let them.

Greenlee slipped the formula into her briefcase.

Someone could send them the satellite feed demonstrating how the women wear the heels and the evening gowns while the little girls play dress-up.

They really should've kept a better eye on their playmates.

####

Her money was on the orange furball in Corner A. Back arched porcupine-style, claws entrenched in the compact dirt.

The circling gray ghost held the apparent advantage, and his slow, stalking dance around his prey suggested playful confidence. The loud hiss ricocheted off the nearby trashcan, boomeranging through the air like a cackle.

Still, the fireball remained motionless. Stricken into frozen fear, perhaps.

Or, maybe -

The ghost launched forward, every bit the flesh-gnashing demon now. Except the only thing this demon would be gnashing today was a mouthful of sturdy aluminum.

Its head bounced off the can, the resulting vibration creating its own demented laughter.

Marian turned away when the fireball made its move, and the first screech temporarily muted the blaring horns and angry shouts: the symphony of the city.

A disconnected ring of shoddy doors provided the backdrop for this play in miniature, this very off-Broadway version of _Cats_.

Compared to their current surrounding, the Pine Cone was a regular presidential suite. At least this should make their offer more….well, attractive.

Stuart adjusted the rearview mirror, straightening the tie that stood in haphazard place of the usual bow. She took the opportunity to take in this man – this amazing human being that the world had tried to dismiss twice, and the people within it long before. Her King of Hearts.

He had died once before by trying to be the man who was his anti-thesis and his anti-hero in equal measure. Now, the world had once again tried to kill him more slowly by finally showing him _its_ true colors

She touched his shoulder.

"Do I look right?" he asked.

For just a moment, he looked at her with that bright, wide smile….that confirmation that no, he would never look 'right' - not for this part.

She wouldn't see it happen again.

"Let me speak to him first."

The twinkle was not in those eyes. A dark, empty glint had taken its place. "No, it'll work. I'm sure it wll. I barely know the boy. He'll….he'll listen to me. People do. I'm the good twin, remember?"

_Yes, I do_.

"And you also have the face of the man he hates more than anyone in the world," she said.

_Save maybe one person_.

And wasn't that always the pot-boiler—the tie-breaker – at the end of any endless day? Precious payback.

Vengeance.

She would take what Stuart could not - could not without taking a part of himself. The best part.

She would take it for those two smiling faces affixed to the dashboard.

She expected the protests. The fight. But when she looked at her husband again, she saw his eyes transfixed to the same spot.

"OK," he said finally. The smile held no warmth. No _him_. "What will you do?"

Her own gaze returned to her granddaughter's face for the briefest of instants. "What I do best, darling."

On the way to the apartment of the young man who could change their fortunes, Marian passed the fallen ghost The exorcized demon.

_Only what I do best_.

####

"And I think you will agree that the figures speak for themselves."

Greenlee gave them her most dazzling, and the extra effort seemed to reel a few more in.

The holdouts, though….still with the knitted brows. The pursed lips. The carefully folded fingers. And the appraising eyes, searching with precision for a weakness.

A tucked hair. A twitch in the throat. A blink.

A tell.

Anything, anything to confirm that she would break.

"The revolution has arrived, ladies and gentlemen."

But she would not give it to them.

"If you would like to –"

Never.

"No, you 'must' be a part of…."

She focused on that man in the second row. Extra-knitted. Brown hair. Never a blink. And a slightly parted mouth that was saying –

"...the next…"

_You did this._

"…great…"

_You killed me_.

The darkness, that she was ready to fight.

But for the bright, blinding, crushing light, she only had one defense: an upturned, pleading hand.

No defense at all, really.

####

"And if I do not have it on my desk by the end of the business day…"

She smiled at the hurried response on the other line. "Yes, please see that you do."

It always amazed her how half the effort got twice the results. Truthfully, she wasn't even sure what she would have followed that statement up with. Not that it mattered. It was never necessary.

She pushed the chair back and immediately felt the breaths ease. When her eyes rested on that familiar face – that ever-morphing face transmitting both boundless hate and endless love, and procuring the same – the breath caught.

"You must be smiling now." The tip of her finger traced the grin-grimace that had been as much a part of her childhood as Nelllie the doll. At least Nellie didn't live in a business suit.

"I've finally entrenched myself in the family business. We took down your worst enemy. Pete's…we'll, he's Pete. Good, reliable. Honest. And I - I finally saw that some things…some parts of our life can never last. Were never meant to last." Nina steadied her hand on the latest Cortlandt ode to corporate genius. "I've found someone who understands now, who gets it. I've found somebody who's not looking for the castles and the white horses, the fairy tale - somebody who helped me through one of the worst times of my life, just by being….well, just by being. And I'd like to think that maybe, just maybe, I did the same for him." The tremors would not abate, and she reached into the desk. Sought the medication and took back the one remaining ounce of control she still had to sacrifice. "I get it now, Father. I really do."

By the time the phone rang again, she answered with the steadiest of hands.

"Nina."

And responded with the steadiest, iciest of voices. The one thing she could not, or would not ever get in her current life was their so-called "silent" partner, who had, of course, decided that he would not remain so quiet after all. "Yes, Doctor."

Caleb had to have been off his own meds to –

"I think you might want to turn on the TV now. It seems your brother has an important announcement."

If David Hayward could ever manage something approximating a tone of panic – as characteristically cool and smug as it might be – this might be it.

Nina put the needle away and had a feeling that she was about to get stuck tenfold for the effort.

She pressed the button and Pete's face did indeed fill the screen…or half of it, anyway. The other half was occupied by a podium, a microphone, and one Adam Chandler, fresh from a cooling-down at the jailhouse, by Caleb's accounts.

She had tuned in just in time for the denouement of this little press conference, it seemed. Adam peered straight into the camera, straight into her office. "I am pleased to announce my newest partners."

Her throat didn't clench, her heart didn't pick up a few beats, and her hand still remained steady, even as she placed her head on it. Her eyes would not confirm what her gut already knew. Before she would close her eyes for a merciful moment, however, she glimpsed her father's face once again. And when she did paint the world in black, the imprint remained.

"Peter Cortlandt."

She waited, trying to reconcile the smile likely now gracing the screen with the shy grin of a brother she'd come to love.

To trust, such a precious commodity.

"And I am especially pleased to introduce our other acquisition…"

She could claim curiosity compelled her eyes up, but that would be a lie. It was the same compulsion that drew not curious, but strangely addicted onlookers to the latest car crash. The overwhelming urge to catch a glimpse of chaos.

Of annihilation.

She had never met the young man with the wavy black hair and the set of deep dimples. But she had seen him every day, his caught-off guard smile captured in a frame on Caleb's desk….the older man's one remaining concession to humanity.

Adam put his arm around Caleb's son and beamed.

Sneered.

"Let me be the first to welcome to the newly restored, improved Chandler Enterprises my son, Miguel."


	29. Chapter 29

Well, PV is back! Interesting first week, huh? Seems the residents haven't gotten over that night any better than they have in this take : ( At least now I don't have to feel so bad about torturing David and Bianca, though.

I think a little therapy's in order for PV today...

####

He did not shave his face every morning. His hair was approximately one inch longer. He no longer wore baseball caps or the blue jersey with the red C and the number 34: his favorite.

His eyes were the same.

Even in the dark, when only a streetlight lit them up, they were still that soft brown she liked. They were warm, although she knew logically that eyes could not be warm.

Lily had recognized them before he stepped away from the café table, into the light.

Seeing him was not part of her plan. Her routine. She had come to the cafe at her designated time of 7:45 PM. Since the café closed at 8:00 PM, the timing of her arrival was impractical. Her need for the fresh-baked bagels was strong, though. The treat remained one of the few impracticalities she had ever practiced in her life.

The man standing before her was another.

"Hi," he said. He was kneading his hands like the baker might handle bread dough.

"Hello." That was the correct response to his greeting. She wanted to say more, but she could not. Then, she remembered the other proper thing she could say. "I am sorry about your brother. He was a nice man, and tall." She bit her lip and looked away. Those were the only facts she knew about the man who had been her brother-in-law. But they were not the right facts.

"Yes, he was. On both counts." His voice was not loud or mad like it was sometimes when she first met him. It wasn't higher and sweet like it sounded when they knew each other better. But it was still light. "Thank you…thank you for caring."

He got quiet, which made her look his way again. A strange feeling traveled all around her, but it did not make her jittery or cluttered up and confused on the inside, like so many things did. Like he did, at one time.

Lily could not be sorry about her first husband, because he was the first person who had made her want to look.

To feel.

"Lily, I have wanted to tell you something for a long time, and I don't know if I ever said it…right before."

The first chill of the night air nipped her. She wrapped her scarf tighter around her neck.

When she saw him begin to take his jacket off, she backed away.

"I'm sorry," he said. His hands had fallen to his sides. "That's what I wanted to say."

A frown was on his lips and on his brow. She now knew what that meant. "I did not mean to hurt your feelings." She needed him to understand. " I did not want a coat."

"It's okay." His lips turned up again, but just as quickly turned back down. He could still confuse her. "I'm sorry about a lot of things. Most of all, I'm sorry that I lied to you."

"You were afraid of being you again." She was not certain why she said that. She had not prepared it.

Every line on his skin cleared. The effect made him younger. "Yes, I was. "

"Sometimes I'm afraid, too." She had always known the physical effects of being scared: sweaty palms, shaking limbs, an increase in heart rate and breathing, paleness.

Now she knew the other effects.

"Are you afraid now?"

"Yes," she admitted.

"Don't be afraid. Just be you. It will always be enough."

That should have confused her, but strangely, it did not.

He smiled. "Goodbye, Lily."

She returned the gesture. "Goodbye, Jonathan."

She watched him fade away, in conjunction with the open sign on the café.

Her routine was broken, and it was okay.

She was okay.

####

She thumbed through Brooke's notes, frowning at the woman's less-than-stellar handwriting Really, for a journalist and businesswoman… The content, however, made her smile. This just might do. Now all they needed – although it was the most important aspect—was the go-ahead.

Observing the clock, Erica surveyed the inventory on the table, which consisted of exactly two dog-eared paperbacks, three magazines with the closest release date of about the time the president took the oath of office, and a half-empty cup of coffee. She imagined the caffeine sliding down a dry throat like cold oil, providing comfort just as cold. Perhaps it had been abandoned as a doctor walked out and -

The soft tap jolted her.

"Jack!"

She brought a hand to her chest with the required dramatic flourish. Surely to let the suited man now towering over her know that he should never sneak up on someone.

Surely not the calm her racing heart.

When she felt the weight of the papers in her hands, however, every pretense – every lie within a lie – disappeared,

"Thank you for coming," she offered genuinely.

His response was that slight head tilt paired with the too-brief curve of the lips: his trademark. Clearing her throat, Erica arranged the papers. Each fumble sent off a tiny trill of sandpaper symphonies. Finally, the documents settled into a calm, orderly rank-and-file, courtesy of the slightly steadier hands now gripping them.

"These are the reason for our meeting, I presume?"

She nodded. "In a sense. You should know that I have also requested Brooke English's help….on the public relations side of things."

His slight eyebrow lift said more than a few interrogations ever could. The effect must have worked wonders in the courtroom. It certainly did outside.

"I know," she said, answering a question he did not ask. "But the woman can do something right on occasion. After all, she hired my daughter. And her audience reach is -"

"You don't have to explain, Erica," he said with a subtle, perfectly infuriating smirk. "Brooke is a wonderful woman…" He bit the tongue for her by adding quickly "….and a competent professional."

"Yes, I suppose."

And that would hopefully close the discussion on Brooke English and center it on someone far more important at the moment. She had already provided Jack with the basic details over the phone, and she knew that this case would fit ideally into his new legal focus. If anyone could help Ali, it would be her one always-constant.

It would be Jack.

"Erica, I do have to warn you that taking on the insurance companies is never a walk in the park. I need to be absolutely certain that this family understands that."

"That's why you're here." She gave the blank, white walls one final appraisal and head shake, mentally filling them with color. With life. "And that's why I'm here."

She would sit beside Ali in the support group, as she always did. They would talk about school. She would gently tease the little girl about that boy in art class she blushed over. They would drink some of that unfortunate punch, listen to the sometimes sad and sometimes humorous stories, and - most of all - they would celebrate being 'survivors.' Routine had never been her strong suit, but this well-worn ritual made her smile reappear. It broadened when she saw their group leader.

The smile was not returned.

The petite gray-haired woman had paused outside the door.

With somewhat less verve than usual, Erica approached. "Hello, Renee."

"Erica, It's nice to see you." The tone suggested it was anything but, which was unusual considering Renee was truly one of the most genuine people Erica had ever met, and – given her wide and ever-morphing circle over the years – that was saying quite a lot.

"We should wait for Ali before we start the session. You know that little girl, she always has to -"

"Erica, I have something to tell you, all of you."

The woman looked towards the group gathered inside - the group still missing its brightest addition. When Renee's eyes made the slow trek back, Erica slowly shook her head, but the mounting cotton inside did not clear. It only multiplied. She backed away until she met familiar resistance. "No." The word, too, was familiar. Automatic. The most useless of weapons.

"Ali's mother called me earlier today. I'm so sorry, Erica, but Ali passed away this weekend."

Gathering ever-resistant breaths, Erica made one simple declaration – "You have been misinformed" – before turning, pushing that resistance away with composed force, and walking blindly to the blank white surrounding. Enveloping. Underneath her feet, the sandpaper crumpled.

Thundered.

####

The kid wasn't going to make it easy, and she presented a complication Bianca really didn't need right now. But weren't complications the story of this place? Complications in the form of faces carved with fear, resignation, desperation so deep that the fall seemed endless, and – yes - defiance.

She had created this refuge as a safe haven for just those complications, and she couldn't lose sight of that now.

"If you rat me out to the cops, then you've gotta explain what 'you' and your 'partner' were doing there. Something tells me you don't want to do that."

The girl pushed her dark hair back, tucked it behind one ear, and tried like mad to keep that smirk in place. When the lock of hair fell again, Bianca wanted to push it back herself.

She also had about a thousand questions swirling through her head right now. Those questions had only increased about a hundred-fold since Yasmin had dragged their peeping tom into the warehouse.

Instead, Bianca held back the mother and the reporter, and allowed the negotiator to take charge. "I brought you here because you looked like you could use a helping hand, and a full stomach."She grinned as the girl stopped chewing the roll she had stuffed into her mouth. "It's okay, I've seen worse table manners in my time."

Puffed cheeks bounced back to a normal structure. The girl took a long swig of water, and Bianca thought for a moment she would lapse back into the silent spell she'd gifted Yasmin and her with on the way over.

"I know they'll call the county. They have to." The girl looked around her as if men with straitjackets and nurses with hypodermic needles were lurking behind every doorway, waiting to tag-team her.

"Nothing will happen that you are not comfortable with happening. I promise you that."

"I've heard that before."

The words were barely audible, but Bianca heard every syllable.

"Don't worry," she said. "I have an 'in' with the head of this place. She can be a bit difficult, don't get me wrong. But ultimately, she tries to follow her instincts." Bianca pulled back. She remembered just how valuable – and so fragile – a commodity trust could be. "There are warm beds and warm food here, and the company's not that bad either. I need to go take care of something. I am going to trust you to stay, OK?"

The girl considered the question. "You gotta take care of that loudmouthed manhandler you were with?"

The question caught her off-guard, but she smiled. She liked this kid. "Maybe." Bianca could have asked for a response to her own question, but instead she turned it into a statement. An olive branch. "I trust you to stay."

The girl rolled her eyes, but she did not look away.

In fact, if Bianca tilted her head and squinted just right, she might have even witnessed the hint of a smile twitching at the girl's lips. She nodded and redirected her chair toward the exit. "I'm Bianca, by the way."

The lack of a response she expected. For some crazy reason, she still trusted the girl, though.

Other things, not so much.

Stealing from a crime scene and counseling a young girl as the looted contents weighted your pockets…well, that was a whole other box of complicated.

One she intended to open in short order.

####

The not-so-carefully arranged stacks of blocks, the markers, and the scissors always reminded her of a kindergarten class for kids taking their first steps into a world that could ultimately crush them. She knew the doc would say this was one of the 'negative thought patterns' that hindered her progress. But in their own ways, they were all children again: relearning life, so that they could get on with the business of fully living it.

Natalia used the red marker to make a rather respectable if not shaky facsimile of the first letter in her name. The fully living part - that she understood. That she strived for everyday.

The problem was that, even as a cop, she had always relied more on her instincts than the nice little logic puzzles: the clues. So when it came to this cognitive behavioral therapy, or whatever fancy term they were using for it these days, she wasn't exactly buying what they were peddling.

The rewiring and strengthening of the brainwaves through habituation - she wanted to leave that to her current partner, who had just finished explained the concept to her in much greater, and more tedious, detail.

Lily Montgomery couldn't have been more different from her. And her particular 'developing life skills' were a major contrast from Natalia's. She sensed, however, that these differences were precisely the reason the doc had paired them together in this latest session. So, analytical Lily would help her with her 'cognitive restructuring' and she in turn would help the overtly sensory-aware girl with 'exposure therapy.'

For now, Natalia's entire world now centered on connecting two slanted lines. Just make a straight, horizontal line and be done with it. But no amount of holding the pen steady or crushing its body until her fingertips numbed could make that connection.

And another one of those 'negative thoughts' was hurtling toward her without abandon. She stabbed it with the pen.

"I can't do this!"

Her partner stepped in, battled it all with science. "The circuits in your brain were not destroyed. They were only damaged. Therefore, they just need to be made stronger through repeated use."

"Guess I'm just the little engine that could."

"No, trains are not relevant to our exercise."

Despite herself, Natalia chuckled. "You're right. I just have to fr...cr…'think'" – finding the word brought validation, and another small chuckle – "I can do this, and then I'll do it."

She took the advice. She let all of the 'could nots' and 'should nots' slide away. She relaxed. Focused.

And she made the connection.

It was her smallest, and largest, victory in a long time.

It was a start - a start she shared with the smiling girl who took unexpected hold of her hand.

Her own celebration forgotten, Natalia waited for Lily to uncatch herself from the moment and pull away.

The girl's attention did focus on her hand after a few moments. Natalia could feel the fingertips on her knuckles stiffen, then, finally, settle.

It was a start for both of them.

"I touched someone else's hand recently. It was nice."

The deep blush that accompanied Lily's confession told Natalia a few things about the source of that hand-touching. "And you would like to touch this person's hand again?" she asked with a smile.

"I want to…I want to touch my lips with his lips."

It was a good thing Lily did not have a mirror to her face right now, given her dislike of the color red.

Natalia sucked her lip in to keep the grin from breaking free and nodded. "I see," she offered.

"I do not want to process or organize or analyze the variables. I want to feel." The grip on Natalia's hand strengthened.

Natalia, with no tremors in sight, placed her other hand over Lily's. "Then let that be your guide."

When the girl finally looked up again, her own smile had broken free…

Only to be quickly recaptured. Lily's brow creased as she focused on something behind Natalia. Puzzled, Natalia turned to the source of Lily's redirected attention. A muted TV flickered on the wall. Two men were shaking hands, obviously basking in silent applause. The older face with the less sincere smile she recognized immediately as Adam Chandler. The other one, though…

Natalia turned back to Lily. "Don't you work with him?" she asked.

The girl's ever-changing face confirmed that Lily Montgomery could already feel… a lot.

Maybe too much.

####

He knew where to find her not because she would need a quiet place, but because she would need a place where she could command. Contemplation and pleading were never Erica Kane trademarks.

When he rounded the last corner, however, the sharp retorts were only faint echoes. The phone was still in her hand, frozen halfway between its owner and the floor. Jack retrieved it before it could continue the rest of the journey. He met no resistance.

"Erica." He touched a shoulder that did not tense. Did not fight. "Maybe we should go inside."

She did not look at him, but rather through him, at some unseen fixed point. "They….they confirmed what that woman said."

"I'm sorry." And there it was - a familiar fallback thrown upon the endless pile of like-minded conventions that had become second-nature in this town over the past year and a half.

"Don't be sorry, Jack." A dim, bright smile appeared, washing away – or perhaps amplifying – the temporary paralysis. "You wanted to go inside, right?" She showed off the door to the chapel as if it were the answer to every sweepstakes…or every trapdoor. "You wanted to go in and count our blessings and maybe ask for a little peace, love, and understanding. Or maybe we could light one small candle and hope that somehow it'll light the way."

He looked towards the door and shook his head. "No, I just think that someone else needs to hear…to know."

She took the phone back and stuffed it into the nearly forgotten purse. Her hand lingered before pulling out a small bottle.

"You see this?" She rattled the orange container, rendering the tiny words on it into a blur. "This is our magical talisman. It conquers the nausea, the exhaustion, the desire to just curl up and – it conquers everything just long enough for us to take the stage, put on the show. But guess what? Magical things, talismans, protection…none of it lasts." The hitch in her breath, in her resolve, did not stop her. "The lesson I've finally learned is to never step off the stage, because what's left out there, in here -" She stabbed a finger towards the chapel door… "that's the real lie…the real punch line."

Over the years, they had embraced in joy, sorrow, passion, tragedy. When he took her in his arms this time and felt the tears soak into his shoulder, he realized that he didn't have the talisman, or the answer.

All they had was now.

The words were matter-of-fact, quiet. The whisper might as well have been a shout. "The treatments are not progressing as they had hoped. They…they want to talk with me about intensifying the radiation…and about the next step."

Jack held her more tightly. Held on for dear life.

####

She wasn't stalking him, not exactly.

Aside from Jesse, who was seemingly indisposed at the moment, he just happened to be the only person wearing a badge in this town that she trusted.

Witnessing said trustworthy cop enter a room on the psych ward of PVH didn't deter her. After all, the fact that half the town, including herself, wasn't signed up in a private room was something of a minor miracle.

Bianca watched from a distance as a sporadic stream of visitors disappeared into the same room. The only commonality among the individuals rested in their diversity. The secretary with the bun of gray hair and the pinched cheeks. The dressed-down young man with the scruff and the glasses. The older gent with the cane and the haunted eyes to match.

And the detective who turned the archetype on its head, whose scars did not create a beast but illuminated a soul full of the only kind of beauty that ever really mattered.

She could wait out here, or maybe just 'bump' into him on her way to some fabricated appointment. Maybe even drop the documents that could very well change everything with an 'oops' and a shrug. Something compelled her forward,, though, past the too-quiet corridors that refuted the hustle and bustle of a busy hospital.

The steady staccato of voices stuttered and stopped, until only one remained. She opened the door and listened.

"I don't think they really understand. They think it's like a movie that you're just replaying in your head over and over, stuck on rewind. And like a movie, you get full-on color and even 3D effects. You get everything. Sensory overload, and it just gets to be too much. But that's…that's not really how it goes. At least not for me. I don't get the full picture, never get the full picture. Quick cuts, like somebody's got the blindfold on and I'm looking past my nose, past the dark for that one bit of light, But I'm not just blindfolded. Gagged, too, and I'm breathing so hard it feels like I'll never catch up. And sometimes, there's no picture at all. Just…sounds. Smells. Tastes, and not the kind you get after a good meal, but after you've relieved yourself of that meal. That goodness. When I get those snatches, I want them to get snatched right back. Before, with…with the explosion, with the things I saw over there, it was blood and body parts in some jigsaw puzzle and light so bright it could cut you in two, in a flash. The kind that'd make you wish, beg for the dark. And the funny thing is, I never felt the pain – they say hell's fire is so intense that you can't feel anything, that hell itself is just this numbness. I believe that… Now, the stuff I can't get out of my head is the same: the same blood, shouts, flashes, pleading eyes. Except this time it's all surrounded by 500 dollar liquor and clinking glasses and furniture you never dare put your feet on. It's all surrounded by celebration. But, in the end, it's the same. You're not the hero, just the spectator. A while back, I watched while my fiancé had a seizure on our kitchen floor…I watched while her father did what I couldn't, what I never can seem to do…"

"You can't save them."

It was only when the somber faces turned toward her that she realized the words were her own.

The speaker did not bristle at the interruption or continue the story. When Brot's eyes locked with hers, he simply nodded.

She remained in the back for the rest of the meeting, listening to other stories. Some she couldn't comprehend. Some too familiar. All of them too much.

The group's counselor did not call an immediate end to the meeting after everyone had spoken. Bianca knew that the pause, the stall was for her benefit. A silent invitation. She politely declined by showing herself the door.

"Thanks for saving me in there. I was beginning to run a little low on material."

She shook herself from the haze, surprised to learn from a quick glance at the clock in the corridor that ten minutes had somehow escaped her notice.

What she did notice, however, was the man she had sought out standing beside her, a dry smile on his face. She readjusted her chair to face him. "I get that," she said. "I've been to enough of these meetings, not recently, but I know after a while your supply of feelings exploration begins to run a little low."

Brot watched as a nurse wheeled a slack-jawed young woman by them. The nurse smiled. Her companion likely never would again.

"Does it get any easier?" he asked.

She sighed, contemplating the question. "Sometimes you think it does. I think we all understood every word you were saying in there, because we get it. We've lived it, and maybe we get through it by reliving it. And we think we've got it in its safe little locked-away box, until something happens…"

"That blows that box to hell," he supplied, surprising her again with a small chuckle. "Bad pun, all things considered."

"Gallows humor, I get that." She surprised herself by smiling.

He nodded, pushing his hands in his pockets. "I know you do. We both got thrown back into the pit that night, and we both lost something. The whole town lost something, and I think sometimes this town's got one prolonged bout of PTSD."

"We've just gotta find our own way out."

"Damn the consequences?"

"Maybe." It was the only answer she had left.

"Or maybe to save anybody else, we've got to save ourselves first."

Bianca cocked an eye at him before they both burst into light laughter. "Words of wisdom from Dr. Sterling's book?"

"I cannot confirm or deny," Brot said, lifting his hands. "But cheesiness and cliches aside, maybe I'm starting to believe it."

"Believing has its place."

"I could use a little help putting the theory to the test next session."

And its time. "Maybe some other time," she said.

"Time's never too late."

Except that wasn't true. Not true at all. Ryan was the latest proof of that, and it was his image that refocused her on what she had come to do.

Not think. Not ponder or feel.

Act. Make it matter.

Bianca reached into her coat. "Brot, I have something you need to see." Wrapped her hand around the envelope and the disk that might very well reveal Ryan's true murderer.

She weighed the options again before pulling the stolen evidence out, leaning forward, and offering one final appraisal: "First, though, I'm gonna need your word that you won't arrest me."


	30. Chapter 30

First off, I hope all the mothers out there had a day full of happiness and celebration. We'd definitely be lost without all of you.

And now, onto the next installment in our PV saga. (second update in five days...progress!)

####

"Welcome back, Doctor."

It wasn't the dusty path that claimed all prints…all traces. It wasn't the steady, guttural sounds that could have arisen from some peaceful local ritual, if the sounds did not dissolve into individual grunts and strangled cries. It wasn't even the air that compressed impossibly more with each step, as if a large vacuum lay at path's end.

It was the absolute emptiness gutting him inside, echoing their destination before he even saw the first line of 'workers.'

"What the hell is –" Amanda's question, her only rational response against rising irrationality, was cut off as she fell to the ground.

Jake knelt beside her and, assured that she was okay (as okay as either of them could be), shot blindly to his feet and just as blindly swung his arm.

The barrel shoved into his chest readjusted his sight, and he roughly joined his wife on the ground.

"I will allow you that one moment of impropriety." The gun now rested casually at their driver's side. "But rest assured it is the only such moment you will have." The words, though, were anything but casual. The man turned to Amanda and smiled, blinding white against midnight. Jake dug his fingers into the only vulnerable flesh he could access. The bolt of pain sliced through his palms and cleared his head.

"To answer your question, Ms. Martin, I believe your husband could provide the best explanation. I'll simply say that our esteemed doctor friend here was one of our most faithful visitors to this site at one time, and one of our most loyal allies."

"Jake would never be involved with this." Her conviction was sharp, clear, and he almost would have believed in its sincerity if she had spared him one glance. One assurance.

The driver's hold on the gun tightened, and for one instant the smile morphed into something else, affording them a glimpse into the true man. "We furnish our employees with free healthcare. I would think your kind would respect that initiative. We did, after all, return the favor by furnishing Dr. Martin with needed finances to ensure the well-being of his other patients. Until -"

"So what is this?" He risked the interruption because if his past was finally coming home to roost, then Amanda would hear it from no one else but him. "Some kind of fancy revenge? I've gotta say, dragging me back here under the guise of an adoption is convoluted and a little uninspired, even for people like you."

The smile had locked back into place. Frozen. "No, we promised you a child, and a child you shall have. Provided a few concessions on your part, of course."

The gun motioned into the distance – into a past he never wanted to revisit.

Jake looked back. To his past.

To his present.

Ready for the pillar of salt.

It came in the form of one tiny figure.

The little girl was easy to pick out of the line, her small frame an anomaly amidst the larger, hunched, and ravaged figures.

She clutched a pick in one hand and a dirty rag in the other. Another rag kept the damp hair from her eyes.

The photograph, now crumpled in his pocket. had captured a light in those eyes. Real life had done its part in almost extinguishing that light.

Something tugged at Jake's arm.

"Oh my God," Amanda whispered.

But his wife was wrong.

God had not place here.

-(_2007_)

"Where did you get this?" He really, _really_ did not want an answer to that question.

Luckily or not, he wasn't getting one anyway.

"It doesn't matter. What matters is that we get this to the right people." She held up the uncut diamond as if her proclamation solved everything.

Or anything.

"It's not that simple, Car. You know that."

Cara took his arm and led them outside, trading sweltering heat in the camp for a whole new breed. "We knew there was a mine somewhere around here. We've seen too many by-products of it to ever think otherwise. "

She paused as a set of unforgettable images they'd give anything to forget filtered through them both. "We can't just patch them up and stick our heads in the sand anymore, Jake."

He ran a hand down his face and only got a fresh sheen of thick sweat for the effort. "They're gonna ask questions. You can't –"

"Anonymous tip," she insisted.

"And how do you know you can trust them…trust anybody in this place? How do you know they won't take this thing –" Jake threw a hand on the diamond, cutting himself in the process. The thin streak of blood smearing the dull surface was sickly appropriate. "- and buy themselves their own shiny GI Joe toys?"

"They have guidelines –"

"There's only one guideline out here, and we both know what that is."

"Please, just…have some faith, okay?" She topped off the request with a peck on the side of his mouth.

His sigh was meant to keep the subject open.

The decidedly less peckish response of his lips, however, had other ideas. Jake slipped the diamond into his knapsack and temporarily let those other ideas take hold.

-(_2007, one week later_)

_'Have a little faith_.'

She'd put the note on top of the diamond: a final plea to his herohood and a final adios to their marriage all rolled into one.

He wondered briefly if she'd ever given the same spiel to that guy in the truck. He wondered what Cara's new hero had given her in return. Obviously things Jake never could.

He held one large, dirty diamond in his hands. The smaller, prettier, no less bloody diamond – he threw that one in the trash.

Along with that last little bit of faith.

####

-(_2007_)

She lifted an arm that might as well have been weighted down with wet sand. The time was rapidly approaching when she could no longer continue writing that weight off as just another long workday and push through.

But that time wasn't now.

They didn't live by conveniently scheduled appointments, but by walk-ins. Not an accurate word either, as makeshift stretchers were the more likely mode of entry. Or sometimes their patients would stumble in - eyes wild or, worse, empty - helplessly groping at large gashes, if they were lucky, and empty spaces if they were less so.

The boy, her latest 'walk-in,' was straddling the line between luck and a small misstep over an abyss whose edges Cara knew too well. She ripped the last of the tattered shirt from arms that could have passed for sticks, revealing a ragged, unforgiving hole rapidly overflowing with a dark red lake.

A stab wound…too kind an assessment.

The boy's dark skin had blanched to near-white and he gasped desperately for the dry air around them, only coughing back the snatches he managed to grab. When she poured the last of the rudimentary medicine into the wound and forced her weight on the clean cloth, the gasps devolved into one seemingly endless scream stripped of reason, civility, or humanity.

She continued to work frantically, feeling the tentative threads in her own mind begin to fray.

Then it stopped.

The boy had mercifully – for him, for her –passed out. It would only be a temporary reprieve, however. The one thing he needed was the one thing that was as precious a commodity as water around here: blood.

Most of the reserves had been taken when the rest of the team left for the village earlier. Just a small supply remained. Just enough, because gambles were the way of life here, right?

The man who burst through the tent's opening five minutes later, rapidly advancing on the boy with unmistakable rage in his eyes before promptly sinking into unconsciousness himself – determined to wrong the right.

The new arrival bore a wound almost identical to the boy's, save for its deeper cut. Cara repeated her earlier process with greater ease since the man was in no position to protest. Standing between the two fallen individuals, she wiped the oppressive moisture from her face and reluctantly shifted out of autopilot. Instincts were easy; decisions were not. And decisions were all she had before her now.

The boy began stirring and she made her first decision.

She tried to calm him with the few words she'd internalized and the soft touch that was universal. Lids slowly fluttered open, and for the first time she saw young brown eyes no longer full of whatever hell they had emerged from, but brimming with the innocent trust of a child.

It was enough to help her say the words "You're going to be okay," and mean them.

And it was almost, almost enough to make him believe those words.

Until he saw her other patient.

And until the screaming started again.

She tried to calm him because his strength was too valuable right now.

She tried to calm him because she knew on some level that both of their lives depended on it.

Soothing words and soft hands were poor defenses this time. Only when he shoved a rough, cold object into her hand did his body stop quaking enough for him to speak his first words. "Take it."

Opening her hand, she traced the razor-sharp contours of the dirt-trodden rock. The diamond, appropriately enough, tinted in a blood-red dust.

The next words, Cara wished she could not understand so well….could not understand at all. "He will kill me."

Untold minutes later, she prepared the IV and placed it into his arm. His face filled again with its natural darkness. With life. His eyes filled with gratitude.

Across the room, another set of eyes remained closed. The sheet draped across a chest was still.

Unmoving.

- (_Present_)

The lips were tilted into a congenial smile, not the sneer she remembered. It spoke of beautiful dreams rather than nightmarish death. The tan uniform was replaced with a suit and tie. And the quote attached to that smile promised to "honor the finer things."

His last words to her had taken a decidedly different, and darker, tone.

Only the eyes, those ever-clear windows, could not hide the monster behind the man.

Cara read the profile of Pine Valley's newest jewelry magnate again, noting a few prominent omissions: former African citizen; former drug cartel kingpin; former faithful brother, bent on delivering a death sentence.

And the former boogeyman who made a ghost of her, back to haunt another day.

####

"This is not officially happening."

The two individuals cramped around him on either side of the small laptop nodded in agreement.

"I did not just take evidence from the station and bring it here." He cast a wary eye to his couch: not exactly interrogation room central.

"I did not accept said evidence from a citizen who cannot seem to understand the concept of 'caution, do not enter.'" The eye circled back and widened for emphasis at the woman sitting to his left.

"Or a 'detective' who doesn't needs to brush up on evidence-tampering in the rulebook." Said detective, sitting to his right, at least had the good sense to look properly chastised. "Nope, none of this is happening at all."

Satisfied that he'd made his point, as ultimately 'pointless' as that point may be, Jesse surveyed the first file. A list of names unfurled before them, each with enough kilobytes attached to it to crash a few servers.

A large database of cases.

And suspects.

A few familiar.

Jesse clicked on the first name, only to be greeted with a small white rectangle blaring three words at him: Please Enter Password. He'd swear each cursor blink was another peal of laughter.

"We'll need to bring someone else in to crack this." The lead detective had finally found his voice again.

Yes, a fine idea. Just induct some other lucky duck into their Future Felons club. Maybe even make up a secret signal and some business cards to boot.

"You have any ideas?" He'd thought he put the proper edge of sarcasm onto the question, but he'd also forgotten he wasn't dealing with ordinary, rational townsfolk here.

Brot immediately offered up a dandy of an 'idea.' "Natalia."

Jesse could only shake his head, the rush of anger dampening the words swirling in his head. Probably for the best, at least for someone in this room.

"She's a genius at this stuff. You know that." His future son-in-law, who could very well be losing that status pretty soon, only gave him a pointed look.

"She's got enough to deal with, and she's not -"

"She's still Natalia. She's still your daughter."

'And that's what scares me most,' he wanted to say.

Their partner-in-crime temporarily tabled the discussion for them. "You need to see this right now."

Bianca had called up another file to the screen. This one was marked not by names, but numbers.

Plain, simple numbers.

Efficient, like assassins.

"I don't think Ryan had time to encrypt it before …"

None of them needed to finish that sentence.

Jesse scanned the large blocks of text, meaningless but meaningful words and letters clawing at his brain: ASPD; MAO A genotype; MHPG; norepinephrine; chromosome; genetic amplification.

"I checked out of science class about the time we cut into the first frog." His eyes settled on the one phrase: subject X. "Afraid I'm gonna need a translator here."

"We've been over it a hundred times," Brot said, quickly looking chastised again at his admission of just how long this little bundle of evidence had been out of official hands.

"We think we have a general idea of what it means," Bianca added.

God, he'd never wanted to throttle the answers out of two people – or maybe gag them so those answers could never come – in his life.

He could only let them fill the silence, for better or worse.

"They're funding a genetic engineering program, among other things," Bianca said.

"Who is 'they'?"

She took control of the mouse again and skipped to the bottom of the document. Dozens of pages of scientific jargon ended with a single picture.

So many times over the past year, Jesse had wanted to be that guy again: the one who didn't care. The one who would just as soon smash this computer and just walk away.

The face smiling up at him in that picture summoned another guy entirely.

One who scared the hell out of him.

The one he needed.

-(_1990_)

"Damn Remington, damn Remington, damn Remington!"

Each word is a chant, a tangible something to hold onto: a chorus in tune with feet pounding the ground.

A branch tangles and secures, ripping off the last shred of cloth on his back even as it rips into his skin.

It's just another burn, though. Just one more scar for the patchwork.

He'd had worse. Much worse.

Most courtesy of the every-steady, ever-closer drumbeat of feet behind him.

He spares a glance over his shoulder, only to be greeted with a gaping black hole. One he has escaped from, only to enter again. Endless.

The flicker of lights - he can convince himself for a second they're just lightning bugs – is no longer a flicker.

He pays for his mistake when his foot crashes into something hard. And he's hurtling headlong into the dark. Maybe flying, maybe another illusion….one that's quickly shattered by a crunching explosion that begins in his jaw and ricochets into his skull, ending in a brighter light.

He'd gladly drown in the dancing stars, but the herd is advancing and he's somehow gotta part the Red Sea…..turn the tide and drown 'them.'

Jesse reaches for the jagged edges and secures his one piece of leverage against his stomach. It has survived. It will always survive: the lone victor bathing in the rivers of blood spilled in its name. It easily takes just a little more of that blood from him, its latest soldier.

Gasping, he stumbles to his feet and finds that rhythm again.

Dancing with the dark.

Or just running for his life.

-(_Present_)

"He's the head of the new corporation specializing in jewelry and precious minerals. I've been investigating them because we received a tip that their major source of funding is blood diamonds. I never had any idea, though, exactly where their own funds were going."

Jesse had learned all about the kind of ideas the man in that picture was capable of, first-hand. "What?" He tried to keep his voice even, tried like hell, unsuccessfully, to shake off just a few cobwebs of the past. "What are they doing?"

"We think that they – along with the help of undisclosed partners - are funding this genetic research with aims of selling it in military and secret ops circles to the highest bidder, whoever that may be."

The words settled in his chest. Not settled, though. Not really.

Squeezed.

Strangled.

"The very short of it is that their scientists, their men –" The tone refuted each distinction – "are trying to take advantage of certain genetic variables that enhance traits and behaviors: aggression, lack of empathy, cunning. A perfect blueprint."

"For the perfect killer," Brot finished.

Jesse rubbed his temple. To understand, or maybe to scrub it all away. His fingers tapped on the two words that had captured his attention. "And who is this Subject X?"

The two exchanged a look he wanted no part of. "Their ideal patient, their guinea pig."

Brot pulled up another screen. "And by our best estimation, he's right here….somewhere in Pine Valley."

####

Ten years, and he could not be certain that he had ever uttered a single word to the man. In this town, that was really quite an amazing feat.

Now, the ever-mysterious Zach Slater sat before him, wearing only a paper gown and asking - in his own quiet way - for help.

Joe took his glasses off and evaluated the man.

He was unshaven, unkempt, his body peppered by cuts and bruises he would not, or could not, explain.

And absolutely still.

Ironically, it was the last part that sent the most intense chill through Joe's body, straight into his fingertips, as he reached out.

The skin of Zach s arm both lessened and intensified the chill. The eyes now regarding him turned that chill to sharp ice.

"What are you thinking, Mr. Slater?"

Joe's patient tilted his head thoughtfully. The blink, when it finally came, was merciful.

"I'm thinking, Doctor, how much I would like to just…give in sometimes. "

The object in his patient's hand received no such mercy.

Joe did not flinch or recoil. He waited for the muscles in those arms to unclench. When they did, he took away the distorted cup.

Evaluating the destruction, he looked up to a jaw set in stone and two cold, dark eyes harboring the faintest flare in their depths. A consistent SOS signal comprised of just two words: 'Please, help.'

Taking Zach's arm again, Joe answered the call.


	31. Chapter 31

Wow, just realized that this is officially the second-longest thing I've written, ever. Guess I've gotta go for the personal record now.

In regards to the news from PP and other-PV land, let's stay positive! We've gotten this far, after all.

Up next in this PV, more answers...

And, of course, more questions.

####

"it's for Greenlee…from Ryan."

Funny, he never would've guessed that a paper could feel like a one-ton Sumo wrestler.

"This isn't funny, Bianca."

Considering she wasn't laughing or so much as cracking a smile, he was thinking that maybe she agreed with that assessment.

"He wrote it – we believe he wrote it just before he died… in case…"

He'd once made a mint out of half-truths and fill-in-the-blanks, but his tolerance level these days was really damn low. "In case what?" Leo smacked the envelope onto the desk. "You act as if he could've known that some escaped felon lunatic was gonna use his place as a hide-out. That he just knew he was going to be…"

Now he was doing it. Couldn't even say the word.

Murdered.

"Who is this 'we,' anyway? If this is from Ryan, then what are you doing with it?" He picked up the envelope again, and it had become just paper. Harmless, at least on the surface.

"That's not important." She wouldn't meet his eyes.

"The hell it's not." He tried to soften the edge, ran a hand through hair he felt like pulling out. "But okay, let's pretend for a second that it's not. Why me?" That was the question he really wanted, 'needed,' answered. "Why are you giving this to me?"

His friend, this woman who had changed so much – this girl he would still trust with his life – gave him a long look. An appraisal, before answering: "Because when she reads this, she is going to need someone who can support her. Who knows her, good and bad…and someone who loves her beyond all reason."

####

She wore a smile like she could conquer the world.

Like she could fly.

And in his arms, she did.

The man swinging her so easily through the air sported a similar grin. Carefree. Whimsical.

Free.

The gleam in his eye gave him away, this father.

This dad.

The tiny postcard was framed by a blue and pink border.

Gender neutral.

The slogan floating above the happy family advised _Talk to your kids about good health_.

Tad folded the pamphlet so that only two images remained: the _Talk to your kids_…

And the smiling little girl.

"It's still a little hot, so be careful."

He turned, accepting the styrofoam cup with none of the care he should be taking. Playing with fire, now that was becoming a favorite pastime.

"Thanks."

One word: one word could build a bridge, right? Move mountains? Make the past few days a bad dream?

They sat on opposite ends of the bench, the preoccupation of another crisis with JR no longer a shield, at least for now.

They sat and waited, for what grand proclamation he could not know. Or maybe, didn't want to know.

This had been her idea - an admission, a concession, a final leap of faith in the grand powers of the mental health system.

In his more rational moments, Tad could concede the point, accept that maybe their daughter needed something that neither of them could give right now.

This wasn't one of those moments.

"Can I ask you something?' He shifted to Dixie again, the sting of the coffee, and so much more, on his lips. "What are we going to do when that -" He minced the word that he really wanted to use - "that guy comes out here and tells us it's just a phase? That our girl is just acting out like any other kid her age? That she's just a confused tomboy. What then?"

He could see her struggle, pull herself from that lost wilderness that seemed to lay claim to another piece of her every day. When those crystal clear baby blues met his, however, none of that dull uncertainty remained.

Only the simple conviction of a mother.

A mom. "And what if he doesn't say any of that?"

_What if he doesn't say what you want to hear._

The steady click of shoe against floor signaled that their question would soon be answered, for better or worse. The doctor approached, clipboard in hand.

Tad intended to do the polite, courteous thing and wait for the man to speak.

The sight of that brimming notepad and the pains which the doctor took to subtly conceal its contents tossed all propriety somewhere down the hall, towards the morgue.

"Tell us what's wrong with our daughter."

He could regret the tone and the immediately disturbed expression of his wife. He could even regret the poor choice of words.

What he could not regret was his need for an answer.

"Nothing is _wrong_ with your child, Mr. Martin." The tone of the slim man before them had also lost some of its polite, courteous tint. He quickly recovered, and it didn't go unnoticed that the good doctor had switched from 'daughter' to 'child'...or that he addressed his next words primarily to Dixie. "I do, however, think it would be best to refer Kathy to a specialist, so that you may fully understand your options."

"What kind of specialist, doctor?"

This time, the man's eyes did turn to him. But they were no longer the cold, objective eyes of a doctor.

They were the same eyes in that brochure. The same ones Tad saw in the mirror most days.

And they were conveying so many things.

Tad wanted nothing more than to blacken those eyes. Punish them.

"A specialist in gender identity issues."

Blind them.

####

He didn't steal a pair of scrubs or hide his face behind some lifted chart. His disguise consisted of a hoodie and a hope that his worried eyes blended in with the surroundings. Leo had found her room with surprising ease. The hardest things, it seemed, were sometimes the easiest.

Like flipping on the local news to see the person you'd fought so hard to keep alive - the person who could make the world come alive with a wry grin and a well-placed heel - laying motionless on the ground. Or having some lady who'd just given cheap publicity to the latest fad diet tell you that your ex-wife, your always-everything, had been 'rushed to the hospital….more details later.'

Or like rushing to the hospital yourself in a hotwired car, not really giving a damn if you ended up making your grand reentrance into the world courtesy of a speeding ticket and a theft charge.

Leo clutched the envelope, his one anchor.

The sight of his former father-in-law and the diva who had always had a soft spot for him, despite her protests to the contrary - these images should have inspired anything besides overwhelming, crippling anger.

Anger because they stood in the way. They, with their grudging vigil, would keep him from getting more than a tantalizing glimpse of dark hair….of familiar eyelashes.

They would keep him from getting to her.

Musing over the wrinkled paper in his hand one final time, Leo rushed for the hospital exit.

No one would keep him from saving her, though.

No one, or nothing.

####

_We are in the year 2013_.

_You have been in a coma for over a year_.

_Do not attempt to move suddenly. _

_You are still recovering_.

_You have anterograde amnesia. _

_Do not panic_.

Angie's gaze lingered on the last word – the only crystal clear word, and she wanted to laugh. Maybe that wasn't such a good idea, because she had a feeling that if she started, she just might never stop.

And that would be counterproductive to the 'no panic' clause, right?

Instead, she took a breath and summoned that calm, collected place inside that took over whenever she put on a doctor's coat. And, to her relief, she found that all of the memories and knowledge that came with that distinction were still intact.

She remembered how to intubate.

She remembered how to decipher words and images that could seem alien to the non-initiated.

She just, apparently, would never remember another patient again, assuming there would 'be' another patient in her career.

"How long -" She tried again, because the words still felt like a boulder in her throat. "How long do I have?"

He smiled and put the cue cards down.

David Hayward: the man who'd tested her oath to 'love thy neighbor' more than any human being on the planet.

The man who had ultimately saved her life. Not once, but twice.

Angie wondered how she should feel about him now and decided she would rediscover that answer. The first of many fresh starts.

"You know, you asked me that right before the coma."

"And what did you say?"

"As long as it wants to give." He had lapsed into silence. The one thing about David she would never forget is that silence was never a good thing. His palm rested on the cards. "The power of your short-term memory is variable. It could be five minutes; it could be five hours. You know the brain, last great unexplored frontier and all."

She nodded, already feeling the fight against that first small, but sharp sensation in her head. That first loosened thread. "Then we'd better make it count."

He didn't tell her to rest or argue about the uselessness of overloading her with information she would soon forget anyway.

He just shrugged. He just…got it. "What do you want to know?"

The memory loss was apparently not entirely exclusive to her short-term memory. The last thing she could remember was waking up in that cold hospital room. And seeing David's face. "Who did this? Who shot me?"

"JR Chandler." The confirmation was clipped, but the force behind it anything but.

Angie closed her eyes, an image of a small blond-haired boy retreating into...consumed by the darkness.

"I remember multiple shots."

"There were several injuries." The silence was so prolonged that she opened her eyes, unsure – or perhaps hoping – that the whole exchange had been a dream.

"And four fatalities," he finished.

Her gasp echoed through the quiet room. "Who?"

He was no longer looking at her. For most people, that refusal to make eye contact might've been a sign of a lie. For David., she knew it was only a defiant stand against the truth.

"Don't worry, Dr. Hubbard, your family and friends are just fine." The sharp edge in his voice was threatening to spiral into something else. He quickly reigned it in, taking back that control he so craved, and reminding her of the man the rest of the town despised. "Fine if you ignore the fact that they believe they buried you over a year ago."

His prod had worked, because now her entire focus was on her family. "Are they OK?"

The grin was anything but endearing. "The good chief is as incompetent at his job as ever, but any fool can see that he still pines for you every day. And your son - I'd say that little girl of his has probably been a saving grace."

He must've read something in her face, because the grin quickly transformed. Softened. "Yes, there is a new Angela Hubbard in the world."

"Oh my God." Her fingers touched lips that trembled with an equal mix of sorrow and joy.

"This can end right now, Angie." The quiet tone, minus all the bravado that she and the rest of the town had come to know so well, was a reminder of the faithful boy who had been. Of the compassionate doctor that could be.

And she listened.

"I can tell them you're here. End all of their regrets, doubts, should-have-beens. No one deserves it. I know that better than anyone."

And his precious control was rapidly fading, redirecting her focus again.

"David, did you -"

"It doesn't matter, OK?"

Angie grabbed his hand. "Yes, it does. It always matters."

The steadiest hands in the northeast had relinquished that control.

"And you matter."

She expected him to pull away. Fiercely remove any trace of the tear that had escaped down his cheek.

He squeezed her hand instead.

And she fought to hold on, secure in this one tangible amidst the rapidly advancing fog.

"Before….before it happens again, I wanted to say two things." Her fluttering eyes searched for one final connection. "I'm so sorry for your loss."

And found it.

"What was the second?"

She smiled, with effort. With ease. "Thank you….for everything."

And the last image, imprinted on her closing eyelids, was more than worth the effort.

Cast into the dark once again, she cloaked herself in the words, the assurances that always guided her back to the light.

Maybe they could again.

_I thank You that You know my pain and sorrow_.

"David, you've gotta get back here."

_Your Word says 'as a mother comforts her child, You comfort us.'_

"I've been through every inch of those files for the past few hours, and I found something."

_I ask that You be my comfort today_.

"David, I found her."

_Help me to sense Your presence and Your peace_.

"I found the woman who's gonna save Greenlee's life….who'll save all their lives."

_Amen_.


	32. Chapter 32

Hope everyone who's able has a relaxing extended weekend. And let's take time tomorrow to honor what the day is truly all about.

####

Three windows. A pigeon gray coat of paint that might not have actually predated the turn of the century. And, miracle of miracles, a door that still stood on its hinges.

The house that their brother called home was, by all accounts, perfectly unremarkable.

Perfectly ordinary.

Definitely an upgrade from some of the crap-stacks Reggie had called _home_.

Frankie's guy had to have gotten it wrong. The shack down the street was much more in line with his expectations. As if to counter his unspoken thoughts, his brother-in-law nudged hm. "See, I told you. He's okay, just like William."

There was an ease on Frankie's face that did more to pipe down that stirring in his gut than any words could. Reggie had seen first-hand the quiet pain when Frankie turned the key in the ignition, preparing to leave his son for the first, and last, time. The peace also now evident in his brother-in-law was a touch of sweet to the bitter.

Reggie continued his surveillance of the house from behind the car window. They'd been staking this place out for at least two hours already, and the fact that they hadn't gotten so much as a stirring curtain for the effort was beginning to put him on edge. "Let's just –"

The 'wait' died on his lips just as a shaky sigh escaped his sister's.

"Isn't that?..." All she managed.

Reggie nodded numbly. Most people would probably laugh at the object of his transfixion: an old hoodie that looked like it'd seen the treads of a few too many Mac trucks. Completely indistinguishable from a thousand others like it, except for the hood - except for the red eight flipped on its side: a symbol, a reminder of a bond that would never die.

At least that's what he had told himself when he literally took the shirt off his back over a decade ago and handed it to an awe-struck little boy.

It would be his final gift to his brother.

When the gangly figure, hands bunched in faded jeans, hunched into the hatchback nearest the road, Frankie turned to them with a lifted eyebrow and a question in his eyes.

Reggie only had one answer: "Follow him."

####

The _celebration_ had consisted of a culinary spread that spared no expense or risk, the requisite fine silver dining utensils, approximately three guests, and a whole serving of grandiose self-congratulations as a side.

It marked her first introduction to her future stepson.

By meal's end, Brooke hoped it would be the last meeting of its kind.

When the proper courteous goodbyes were handed out, she leaned against the door. Adam still beamed as he crossed the foyer and approached his favorite nightly plaything: the decanter.

The liquid sliding slick against the glass clawed at her ears - and her resolve - faster than any nail scratching any chalkboard.

"Can I ask you something, Adam?" With effort, she flattened her palms and pushed herself from the doorway. The thickness in the air seemed to hold her back.

If she was being honest with herself, though – and, increasingly these days, she had lost something in the fine-tuned art of self-deception –she knew the true source of the exertion…the effort.

"Anything, my dear." He turned to her, glass raised in another toast.

Brooke did not wait for the sip. The validation. "What was your take-away from tonight?"

"My take-away?" He put the glass down and placed his hands in his pockets, a slight smile-frown on his face. Ever the business-casual.

She waited for the answer.

For her answer.

The smile returned, just before she could grasp the illusion of something else. "I'm back in the game." The smile did not reach his eyes. Did not warm the ice-tipped curve. "I'm back."

She closed her eyes then. Against the ice. Against the feelings she'd held back the night she'd gone to the jailhouse, bail money in hand.

Against every possible alternate answer to her question: 'time with my son'; 'time with you, remembering our first wedding anniversary, when we knew we'd make it through the worst parts, when we knew we'd made it…together'; 'time for honoring her, for honoring them, for making it matter….'

She closed her eyes to fantasies, and opened them to reality. "Congratulations."

After Adam had excused himself for the night, a certain dip in his voice that implied he hoped the night was not yet over, Brooke stood alone in the room: this room cobbled together with equal parts dream and nightmare.

A true Frankenstein's monster.

She opened the drawer, removed the one item that she wanted to take with her, and left another in its place. The ring still glinted, sparkling and igniting its own hopes, dreams, and fantasies

They extinguished as she closed the drawer.

The tiny beep did not startle her. It did, however, accomplish something more vital.

It made her take the necessary action.

She scanned the phone's message: 'We need to talk, right now. Big break. –Bianca'

With four short words, Brooke slipped the phone back into her satchel, alongside the not-quite-shattered glass.

Not yet, anyway. There was still time.

When she left the mansion, she did not look back.

####

She picked up the phone with a hand that would not shake. When she placed it to her ear, she cut everything else out. By necessity.

"I never expected this, but maybe, in some way, I knew it was inevitable." The man blinked, his only give-away since he had sat down across from her.

Liza's first impulse had been to spit in his direction, but she knew the glass partition separating them would shield him from that poor substitute for retribution.

But she would not think about that, or ponder anything he said, because this was business.

Her eyes flicked quickly to the marching row of windows and the bareness of the room pressing all around her. Tightening.

It had to be.

"I have a proposal for you."

There. Familiar words. Said a thousand times before in a thousand contexts. Protocol she could handle. But, unlike most clients, he did not narrow his eyes or ask for more details. He folded his hands, leaning forward. Waiting.

She would not give him the control. And she would not look those eyes. She would not validate the things that had no place here or now.

So she settled, focused on a patch of gray and continued, voice precisely even: "I am sure you are aware that the gun laws in this state are permissive at best, a recipe for anarchy at worst. I want to change that, and you are going to help me make it happen."

_It's the least you can do_.

Those invisible words hung heavy in the air, fogging the glass.

Once again, he would not ask how or when or where, leaving her words to slice through the ever-thickening air.

"You are going to offer your testimony to the state congressional committee and you will make it clear that…people like yourself should never come within five hundred feet of a firearm."

"Is it easier to blame the gun, Liza?"

"Trust me, I know 'exactly' who to blame." She strangled that first sharp edge, that first crack. Her teeth ground with the effort. "It will be in your best interest to take this step, as it might mitigate -"

"I don't want mitigation." And there was that voice, that simmering Chandler tone she knew so well from years, 'decades' of first-hand experience. She would not acknowledge the precise moment when it changed, when it found its other side of the coin. "I don't want to throw the responsibility on some hunk of metal….on anything. I've been doing that my whole life, and that's how I got here. I'm here because of me. I lost - _we _lost so much because of me. Nothing else."

He was pulling at her, begging her to acknowledge the one unmentionable, unspoken word, begging her to lash out, begging for that spit and more...

The one thing he did not, and could not ever, beg for was forgiveness.

She did the only thing she could, to maintain her resolve. Her anything. She ignored every plea. "Somehow, I think most of us would rather take our chances in a room harboring a madman with a stick than a cold-hearted bastard with a semi-automatic pistol. With new regulations, we can prevent households with people possessing a questionable mental or criminal history from obtaining these individual equivalents of nuclear weapons."

Facts were sterile. Indisputable. Indestructible weapons.

So she armored herself with them, fully stocked for this new battle. This guiding purpose. "Do we have a deal?"

He was quiet, and this, she expected. Negotiations, after all, took time. As did surrender.

She rose.

"Liza"

This time, she made the mistake of looking.

This time, she was in danger of drowning.

Every word, every feeling, every conflict and tear and apology and refused shred of mutual devastation ricocheted off that flimsy glass. And the tiniest miniscule made it through.

JR ended their visit with one word: "Okay."

####

"He wore glasses."

"God, those things….Mom was so proud she could afford them. She didn't realize I'd be the one protecting that investment on the playground for a good five years."

"Hey, it paid off, though. He always toted around at least five books."

"Yeah, he was pretty freaking smart; teaching me geometry when he still shoulda been adding two plus two…"

"And so sweet….remember that time Mom worked late on your birthday? He stepped right in on cake duty, even though the poor kitchen paid the price."

"Sounds like you hit the brother jackpot," Frankie observed, interrupting their memory-swap.

"We did, but don't think the kid was some kind of saint. He could throw up one heck of a fit when the mood hit."

"I think you found that out when he hacked off one of your dreds after you told him he couldn't dye his hair blue."

Randi and Reggie laughed in the crazy, nonsensical way only a crazy, nonsensical secret joke could produce.

"What's next?" Frankie asked, keeping a safe distance from their brother's ride.

Catching a glimpse at that furrow in Randi's brow, Reggie knew one thing: neither one of them had a damn clue.

But they'd have to find one fast, as the car ahead of them pulled to a stop. It idled so damn long that Reggie was sorely tempted to go rip the door open himself, which probably wasn't exactly the best re-introduction into his brother's life.

When the boy finally did emerge, he did not move with nearly the same speed as he had earlier. His movements were much more deliberate.

Hesitant.

He disappeared behind a graffiti-lined wall, and that first tweak of unease hit Reggie in the gut.

_Not again_.

Then the bottom fell out.

He jumped from the car, words slamming harshly against his eardrums: "Reggie, no! Stop!"

Echoing back, mutating….slurred by blood and strangled by approaching death.

_Reggie…_ Georgie's hand, reaching, reaching…

It dissolved in his grasp as he turned the corner, breathless.

"Fight back, you worthless sack!"

The hoodie was dusty…and bloody.

"Please, please. Mama's boy saying please?"

Feet kicked up a dust storm, burying the boy in the center. Living dead.

"Brought it on yourself. Think you can be one of us, huh?"

The dust settled on a broken pair of glasses.

"Hit me, come on. Get up and hit me!"

The glasses got one drop of moisture, fragmented into a million slicing razors…

Reggie grabbed the bastard's leg mid-punt and wrenched it hard. The sonofabitch landed with a thud. He ran to his wheezing brother, not caring a damn when his knee slammed with a crack onto the ground. He took hold of the the eight, the-'always,' and pulled the hood back.

"Are you? -"

"I'm just dandy."

Shaking his head slowly, Reggie turned from the bruised, wide-eyed boy. This boy he'd saved.

This stranger.

The figure behind them had risen, supporting himself on one defiant leg. He spit out a tooth and removed his own hood. Two blazing brown eyes stared Reggie down. They were no longer tinted or framed by glasses. Their only accessory was a cold smirk.

Fire and ice.

He spoke again. "Long time no see, Brother."


	33. Chapter 33

There's an old writer's adage that advises one to chase your characters up a tree and throw rocks at them. Should I be concerned that I'm apt to set the tree on fire, place it over a lake teeming with hungry piranhas, and to replace those rocks with cannonballs?...

####

She raced past him. That's the one thing she would long remember about their reunion, and the one thing her brother would likely never forget.

She raced past him and threw her arms around Reggie, stopping short at the boy hunched on the ground.

Only then did she turn around.

Only then did she know.

"Let him go," she said to Frankie, who unwittingly had his brother-in-law's arm in a vise grip. "He won't –"

And she stopped short again, because she couldn't make that promise.

Not anymore.

Reggie signaled to the fallen boy. "I think he could use your help, Frankie." He took ownership of their brother's unwilling arm. "We'll take care of him."

"The hell you will."

Randi sent a silent plea to Frankie, her one constant. His gaze softened before he nodded, kneeling to the stranger.

Taking in every ounce of her husband's calm reserve, she approached her baby brother, no longer a baby. She could only hope he would still accept the second distinction.

She didn't expect the hugs or smiles that had been a cornerstone of her reunion with Reggie. She didn't expect, and Tyrone didn't disappoint.

When he stalked away a few feet and leaned against the brick wall, she searched for any sign of the little boy who used to sneak a snack from the fridge every night….for any trace of her brother.

The smirking boy in his place stared straight ahead, his gaze an unyielding line...a laser.

Reggie placed himself in that line, his own gaze unflinching.

"Who is that kid?" he asked.

Tyrone was no longer slouching, and far from indifferent. "You think you get to show up outta nowhere, get the drop on me, and act like -"

"Yes, I do." Reggie's voice was mature, deep, and steady. Her brother's courtroom voice, no doubt. "Despite what you may think, we're family."

The snort was dismissive, and anything but.

"Naw, man, that worthless little punk over there -" Tyrone's finger stabbed at the boy, who was now balanced on his knees. "—'_he_''s the only family I got. Even got the threads to prove it."

A lip curled upward at Reggie's realization. "Yeah, figured I'd let the foster runt have it. Him or the trash…it woulda fit either way."

Reggie grew quiet, and Randi grew angrier. "You could have killed that kid." Of all the first words she envisioned uttering to her brother, those were at the bottom of the list.

Tyrone did look at her this time, and she would have given anything if he hadn't. "Yeah, family's got that way, you know," he said, minus all the bravado.

At that moment, she wanted nothing more than to turn away, get in the car, and spend the car ride home recrafting her dream. Rebuilding the illusion.

Instead, Randi stepped beside Reggie. "We know you must have a lot of questions, a lot you want to say -"

"Actually, I just got one thing to say." When he lunged forward, she took a step back. Stumbled.

His smirk was victorious.

Resigned.

"Get the hell outta my life."

####

"I…worked for them."

The ropes binding them together chafed. Burned.

She'd long since given up trying to negotiate the knots. Now, the only thing keeping her tethered to him…to this world increasingly defined by alternating, relentless bands of light and dark – was his voice.

"Did you know?..." She swallowed more dryness in her throat. It was a convenient excuse to not finish the question, and to not hear the answer.

"I would come down when they sent a message…when someone got hurt. Usually, there would be a meeting point so I wouldn't have to -"

Amanda wondered briefly what desperate diversions robbed Jake of his words. But she could not look him in the eyes, squeeze his hands, offer the right encouragement. All she could do was stare at the sun beating endlessly against the rock in front of her and wait.

"Most of the time, it was manageable without having to go there. Most of the time." The rush to fill in the silence came quicker this time. "In return, they'd give me a cut, no questions asked."

The remnants of the small bowl of rice - her last meal - morphed into a sour metallic ball and pushed its way up her throat. She fought it, battled it back with one word. "Why?"

A distant, strangled cry seemed to answer her.

Then the shouting – and the chaos – began again.

####

His knowledge of this place extended to Memorial Stadium, which had now truly earned the distinction, and a shuttered-up little bed and breakfast on the outskirts of the outskirts. He'd haunted that place for three days, waiting out both the local cops on his tail and the bruiser who'd wanted to break said tail. Not one of his more winning cons, and definitely not enough time to get even a tourist's lay of the land.

Baltimore and Leo duPres didn't part on the best of terms.

The fact that he was now grinning at another pretty face in another strange corridor didn't exactly boost his confidence, especially considering he'd been out of the game long enough to develop a hell of a lot of rust. He'd have to work with what he had.

Leo adjusted his arm and winced at just the right time, painted that pained grin back on at just the right moment.

"Please, Miss…" And his gaze lingered on a bare finger for just the right number of seconds. With practiced effort, he drew his attention back to the nurse, whose professional stance was betrayed by the slightest crinkle around her eyes.

"Fulton," she supplied, the crinkle deepening just a bit.

Just enough.

"Miss Fulton, if I could see even the assistant, I would be much obliged." Good thing he hadn't lost the drawl completely: it was a weapon unto itself.

Her now-uncrossed arms and small smile told him that maybe he hadn't completely lost other capabilities, either.

"I believe she is in the office today, but honestly, I don't know how much help she would be to you." The nurse leaned forward, as if ready to share a state secret. Dipping a toe into personal space. "She's not certified yet."

"Don't worry, darling." He, in turn, dipped in a whole foot. Amped up his own smile. "I think you'll help me find exactly what I'm looking for."

A few more Southern gentleman concessions and a well-placed wink later, and he was on his way down the corridor. He didn't have time for guilt about using the nurse, or about promising a phone call that would never come. More importantly, Greenlee didn't have the time.

And besides, he was hopefully telling nothing but the truth about finding what he sought. The woman in the office at the end of this hall could give him exactly what he needed.

The door was ajar, and he took a quick but careful appraisal before entering. Her brown hair, woven with streaks of gray, was pulled up into a bun. Dressed in the requisite white coat, she was bent over a pile of notes, leisurely scribbling.

No give-aways.

Like so many times in his life, he was winging it on a little logic, a few big hunches, and a whole lot of luck.

He'd started this journey with a name, one common name that screamed alias. She could've changed it a dozen times over since then, but this is where the luck, the hope, came in.

The fact that no less than two dozen women in Baltimore shared that particular name did not exactly ease the journey to this mystery patient of David's.

Based on age, he was able to narrow it down to five.

And now was where the hunch came in. Taking a deep breath, he pushed the door open.

The woman looked up, removed her glasses, and gave him a crooked smile.

A smile that was one of the few features David remembered.

"May I help you?" she asked.

Leo nodded and tapped his arm. "A nurse suggested that you might assist me with getting this back into fighting form, ma'am."

God, the ma'am just might have been a bit too much.

The physical therapy assistant rose. "May I ask what happened, Mr?..."

"Daniels," he offered. "Leonard Daniels."

He held out his hand, but since she remained standing behind the desk, he dropped it and stepped further into the room. "Pleased to meet you."

"Likewise." She nodded to the oak chair in front of her desk, and suddenly he felt like a kid in the principal's office again.

He sat down and shrugged with his _good _arm. "Just my usual klutzy self, I'm afraid. See, I was on a business trip, from this little burg in Pennsylvania called Pine Valley..."

He was testing her, he could admit that. Waiting for a reaction.

And he got one.

Thing was, she was testing him, too.

And the object she removed from the drawer, now pointed straight at his head, suggested that he had failed.

With flying colors.

"Telll me who you really are." The meek little woman cocked her not-so-meek gun.  
"Right now."

####

He had a shoe missing. The blood, the wheezing trying for a syllable, and the eyes. Those nothing eyes, and all Amanda wanted to do was put a sock on his foot.

Jake already had a wrap around the hole. The white was already blooming. He didn't offer any words of reassurance, and he didn't touch the boy's head or move that one stubborn sweat-slicked strand tucked under his eyelid. His hands focused on the task, steady, and his eyes settled on her for the first time since their captor had given them temporary freedom.

"Help me move this."

Once they had pushed the heavy stone away, inch by impossible inch, she did the only thing that she could - she took the boy's hand in hers and squeezed.

She squeezed, while Jake worked with contraptions she'd only seen on the stray episode of _Untold Stories of the ER._

"Do not let him die, Doctor," the man hovering over them demanded. Not for the boy's sake, but for the sake of his _merchandise _alone.

Amanda pushed him away in her mind and the darkness focused, made a pinpoint. Just her and the boy and those contraptions. It was the time when everything was supposed to make sense. The boy would tell her a sweet story about his little brother, maybe ask her to give his mom a message. She'd tell him everything was gonna be all right, just before that moment when his eyes would fill with a shining light that would slice through the darkness: that moment when everything would finally, finally make sense and he'd peacefully close his eyes with a smile's hint on his face.

It was the script.

But somewhere along the way, one of those scab hacks had stolen the pen away. Replaced flowery poetic epitaphs with rough, half-baked syllables: "I….cold."

Shining eyes full of heaven replaced with emptiness staring at bare toes that wouldn't wiggle.

The pinpoint grew, both washing away the dark and intensifying it.

The small hand in her grip went slack.

Finally, Jake looked up, his eyes haunted and his voice never further away. "Why?"

And never closer.

"That's why."


	34. Chapter 34

It's a bit of a mind trip sometimes watching PV 2.0 and then writing alt-PV. There are a lot of differences, but a few parallels as well. I guess I was a little in sync with the new, now-old writers on some things.

In this week's installment of alt-PV, will the identity of Leo's gun-toting mystery woman be revealed?

Could be ; )

####

The gloves didn't fit, but few things in his life did these days.

The kid's back had been turned - his attention focused on the small phone - since Caleb had entered the ring. He had resisted the urge to go knock that piece of plastic from the boy's hand, to severe that connection with the man he knew to be on the other end of the line.

Caleb tapped his sparring partner on the shoulder, and the kid tossed the phone onto an outside towel and turned, grinning. "You ready to get –" The dimples, his mother's legacy, immediately disappeared.

"I'm ready, Asher," Caleb said evenly. He had successfully – or unsuccessfully—held back the other word threatening to spill out: son.

"My name's Miguel. Always has been, always will be."

He hadn't claimed the last name yet, and for that Caleb was grateful.

The young man looked around the ring. Behind him. Anywhere but forward. "Where's Ray? We were supposed to be doing this."

"Ray, like most people, I've discovered, has a price." He held the words back again, the ones that would push this further. Words, he'd also discovered, had that way about them.

"Whatever, I'm out of here."

A man of few words. At one time, it had been a small validation of their fragile connection.

Caleb raised his glove. The kid's shoulder settled against it.

"I'll give you one chance to get that thing off of me, old man."

The corner of Caleb's lips gave a little at that, and he shook his head. "I'm kinda new at this." A truer statement than he'd like to admit. "Just a few minutes. And hey, you've got a free punching bag."

The kid pushed back and Caleb steeled himself for that first roundhouse. Instead, a pair of tight gloves roughly brushed against his own.

"Fine."

Caleb put his hands up. For defense.

Or offense.

####

"Damn –" She pursed her lips together and exhaled slowly, because that's the reaction proper women were supposed to have. They weren't supposed to swear.

"Call me, please. We need to talk about this."

And they most assuredly were not supposed to want to hang their brothers up by their...heels.

Nina took in the image on the phone. It was recent: his buttoned-up, no-glasses best. The company profile image. It was then she realized that this was the only picture she had of her little brother. It had replaced the small snapshot of a tiny newborn making a challenge to the camera. Their father's scowl, and she'd thought it a fluke at one time.

Until now. Until she, once again, watched another family (another family in which she had crafted her own tenuous stick figure, complete with briefcase) implode before her eyes.

She vanquished the image, the brother, with one prolonged press. If only most things were that easy - that uncomplicated.

Her strides down the corridor were more purposeful. Unhesitant. She still had one shelter, one safe haven, and she would do anything to shield it – to shield them - from the shrapnel.

'Anything?' It was the voice of her challenger, her cross-legged devil on the shoulder, and somewhere, someway, it had assumed the unmistakable, infuriating tone of David Hayward.

Nina extended a hand that had clenched into a fist. With effort, she relaxed her fingers before opening the door.

Jackson, ever-faithful, sat vigil by his daughter. And beside him, equally vigilant, sat his ex-wife.

He rose up, buttoned his coat, and turned away. When he turned back, the redness rimming his eyes – the concession – was gone. Replaced by a weak smile.

Nina accepted the brief kiss on her cheek with a dishonest smile of her own. "I'm sorry I couldn't make it earlier. It's just -"

"I know, I understand." The smile offered only the smallest betrayal. "How did things go at Cortlandt?"

"They're….as stable as they can be." It was as honest as she could be, and the answer seemed fitting in many ways. "But that's not important right now. How is she?"

Jackson looked down at his daughter, and the betrayal became just a little stronger. "They're….they're still running tests, but you know doctors, only rivaled by lawyers when it comes to stalling and double-speak."

The room's other occupant approached subtly, not her usual manner. Nina would love to claim Erica Kane had just faded into the background. She would love to gift herself that one little, inconsequential, important white lie.

But she offered up another half-truth instead. "Erica, it's nice to see you."

The tiny woman before her offered a bright smile, and Nina wondered briefly what half-truths and little white lies sustained it. "And you as well, Nina."

"Erica had an appointment with her doctor today, and she came by to see Greenlee."

Nina nodded, smiled, kept the lie going. The fact that Jack felt compelled to offer an explanation…

"That was very kind of you, and I certainly hope that things went well with your appointment."

Erica exchanged the briefest of glances with Jack. A glance meant for only two. She smiled again and nodded, making Nina wish more than anything that they could dispense with all of the fake pleasantries.

"And I hope – no, I am confident – that the issues between Cortlandt and Chandler Enterprises will settle in time."

The uneasy silence that followed the final placating smile lasted only seconds longer.

Erica excused herself, and Nina had one compulsion of her own, one small acition implemented just before the other woman had closed the hospital door completely.

Pulling away from the kiss with her husband, Nina tried her best to ignore the loud clap.

David Hayward's parting pearl of wisdom, however, was driven straight to the front of her mind…her awareness.

As she took Erica's chair, and her place, between Jack and his daughter, the echoing words were impossible to ignore:

"Take what you want."

####

The truth shall set you free.

He'd never had much use for that particular little quotable quote.

Hell, he'd probably sneered at its colossal irony on more than a few occasions.

But damned if staring down the barrel of a gun didn't change one's perspective in a flash.

And right now, his truth only had one face.

Leo held up one arm in surrender and with his _bad_ arm slowly reached into his shirt pocket. His hand grasped the picture that had been resting against his chest, his heart, for the better part of ten years.

With more deliberate care, he pulled it into the open and placed it on the desk. The edges may have been worn and the old-school printing ink slightly faded, but the smiling woman contained, uncontained, within its borders remained as vibrant as the day he'd made his first bet with her: a bet he'd both lost and won.

The woman across from him reached out and drew it towards her, but the gun never lost its focus. It was almost as if she'd just been waiting for the opportunity – the need – to arise, and that rattled the hell out of him.

"Who is this?" she asked after an endless pause.

This time, Leo didn't measure his words. He, for once, banked on the truth. "She's the reason I'm here. I think you can save her life."

He no longer expected her to raise the alarm or send in a few bruisers to drag him away. On some level, he knew that was probably the last thing she wanted. On a deeper level still, he felt that he and this woman might have more in common than either one of them ever imagined.

Including an absolute willingness to use deadly force, if needed. He kept that in mind as he continued. "I'm going to mention two names, and I think I know what your reaction will be. But please, please resist the urge to blow my brains out until I've finished what I have to say."

She mulled that over before replying, "Shoot." The slight blush signaled her regret over the unfortunate choice of words, providing the only thing close to a light moment.

Leo allowed himself half a smile before saying the words: "David Hayward."

The ever-so-slight eyebrow raise signaled.

"Project Orpheus."

And the first tremor – no, jerk – in that steady trigger hand confirmed.

####

"No, no. This one will do." She had bypassed the chic and the sleek in favor of the simple and sophisticated. Erica Kane at her muted best.

For her part, Opal had opted for a basic ginger with only the barest waves. Her proper businesswoman presentation.

Erica laid her purse on the Glamorama's front counter, but Opal quickly pushed it away. "Now you know it's on the house: Gal-Pal Special."

Said gal-pal smiled in response, but the gesture didn't reach her eyes like it usually did. "Thank you, Opal."

The statement felt like more than a courtesy for the cheap wig, but Opal wasn't sure about pressing the issue. She settled on a different topic, one that might still answer the questions tugging at her. "Why the new style?"

_Talk to me_.

Erica settled into the closest styling chair and fixed her with a pointed look. "I'd rather hear about you."

_Don't push it_.

Normally, she'd be more than happy to oblige her friend's sudden turn as listener, but at the moment Opal wanted nothing more than to forget about all things Opal Cortlandt. It was a problem, she sensed, Erica was dealing with too.

She blew a stray synthetic hair from her eye. "Well, I'm just peaches and cream – if I happen to forget the fact that Caleb and my Petey are throwing sticks, stones, and setting a few pellet gun targets on each other."

"I heard, and I know from firsthand experience the perils of climbing into a snake pit with Adam Chandler - I'm sorry, Opal. I didn't mean -"

Opal waved her hand, which was now sporting about fifty shades of nail polish. "It's okay. Well, actually , it's not. I just wish I understood what was going on in that boy of mine's head. Either of those boys' heads," she finished with a mutter.

"Haven't they talked to you?"

"Not a word." The words came out softer than usual; she felt the need to cover, and quick...to not show just how much -

"But then again, what else should I expect from my boys?" she offered with a fake grin

"Respect," Erica said without missing a beat. She rose up and placed her hands on Opal's shoulder. Her firend's usually animated face had never been more still.

Or more open. "Make them respect you, Opal."

Opal followed Erica's slow trek to another hairpiece hanging from a rack. The fiery red and the tight curls blazed from the dark corner.

With a cheeky, _real_ grin, Opal turned back to her gal-pal and winked. "I think you just may be onto something."

####

"How far were you gonna let us go?"

The kid pulled back, reassumed his hop-dance stance.

Caleb moved a glove to his midsection. Defense. "What?"

"I just wanted to know if you were willing to let me sleep with my own sister to keep up your lie." He feigned a head shot but pulled back again.

"I was going to tell you if –"

He'd moved his glove and paid for it. Doubled over, with effort, Caleb reassumed his position. His defense.

"If what? If we fell in love? Good thing for you my _brother_ took care of that ever happening."

"I'm –"

This time his chin paid the price. His teeth crashed together painfully. Still, he managed the words. "He's using you."

Asher's hands remained fixed in the same position. Confident.

Vulnerable.

"You know, Adam came looking for me once. Got to find out about that from my good ole' Aunt Marian. when she paid me a visit. Seems Mom made a deal with one of the neighborhood kids and passed him off as me. Guy was enterprising, though, I'll give him that. Took the money he got offered for some bone marrow and ran."

Caleb made another half-hearted jab at the boy's gloves. "Then you see - you know - you're only as good to him as what you can give him."

"Like father, like son." Jab.

"Is that why you're doing this? Trying to teach me a lesson?" Side-step.

"No, just honoring the only lesson you ever taught me. Run for the hills when the going gets tough, and stockpile your weapons." Right hook.

"You wanna know the main lesson I learned up there away from everybody? Appreciate what you've got." He ducked. "You're still my boy." Straightened. "My son."

"And you're still the bastard who killed my mother because Adam Chandler gave her what you never could."

Caleb threw his first real punch. Straight into the boy's gut. As his son doubled over, Caleb laid a glove on his shoulder once again.

He never saw the upper-cut coming. Asher stopped it midswing – this maneuver that would have provided him his needed TKO.

Asher raised up, tore off his gloves. "By the way, Mr. Cortlandt, I heard this unfortunate rumor about a computer virus at Cortlandt Electronics. I really, really hope it doesn't affect your bottom line."

And left Caleb in the middle of the ring. Still standing.

Still KOed.

####

The fact that the primary finger on the woman's hand was now hugging the trigger just a little tighter quickened Leo's words. "David is my brother, and I know about Orpheus because I was one of its benefactors, or victims, depending on how you look at it."

She remained silent, so he plowed forward. "Please don't hold the family connection against me. I know first-hand just how _off-putting _my brother can be to others."

"David was always kind to me."

Her first direct admission of a connection with David. Maybe, _maybe_ he was beginning to earn her trust.

"It was the others –"

Her abrupt cut-off let Leo know that they weren't exactly to the bonding buddies phase just yet. He forced a grin, and a slight redirect. "Stem cells, huh? Who woulda thunkit? When I - when I had my accident, they were still just some fringe science experiment in Asia."

She managed her own ghost of a grin. "In my time, they were just science fiction."

"Well, David's always been a visionary. He'd be more than happy to tell you that himself."

She frowned. "He was an idealistic college kid. I got that."

Well, one thing Leo surely never expected to hear were his brother and the word 'idealistic' in the same sentence.

"They used him."

He waited for her to close up again.

"They used me."

He chanced it. "Who?"

And to his ever-lasting surprise, she answered. "I don't know their names, or even their faces. Most of them were just shadows, ready to take, ready to steal, ready to taint something positive and make it into something sick and dark."

The flicker of a lightbulb above them matched the flicker of creeping realization in his brain. And by God, how he wished it hadn't.

"His investors?"

How he wished he didn't realize the one potential _investor_ who would know all about David and his ideals.

She nodded, part of her still in the room, part of her back there. He had his best opportunity to snatch the gun away now. He didn't. A part of him was back in his own hell.

"I think they must have told your brother that I was moving away to start a new life. And in a way, they were telling the truth, because a new life was exactly what they had in mind. They had already tried to wipe away any trace of my old one." The flickering light wove her face in and out of shadows. "They used one of their best and brightest young recruits to arrange my husband's unfortunate _death_." That ghost of a grin returned. "They had to work with what they had when they got me instead."

Those words pulled him back. "Your husband?"

Her eyes were now full of the past, and every emotion that went with that past. "I haven't seen him in three decades. He was the last face I saw before I closed my eyes - -before I woke up to my new reality, and his is the face I try to forget before I close my eyes every night."

Quietly, she sat the gun on the desk, beside the face of his own no-forget.

The muscles in his throat were clenched, painful. He asked the question for which he already knew the answer. "Why did you stay away?"

She looked at him with momentary wonder, probably puzzled by the fact that she was laying her whole ife bare for a complete stranger. To Leo, though, the feeling remained that they were both exactly where they needed to be, in this moment.

"After they took me away from Pine Valley, I became the promise: the living symbol for all of their greater, or lesser, ambitions."

"The ultimate guinea pig?" he guessed, his mind rolling with the waves in his stomach.

She nodded again, slightly. It was affirmation enough. "I don't even want to think about how many days, nights, months, _years_ I spent in that bed - half-alive, half-dead. I held on any way I could. One time, I even imagined I'd reunited with my brother in heaven. Those snatches of hope, of life, kept me going." She released a shaky breath for both of them. "One night, by some miracle, I managed to slip out, get away. I don't know how much time passed after that, how much more of my life I lost before I found myself dazed and disoriented in this big city."

"Baltimore?" he asked, unable to hide his surprise. "You've been here all this time?"

She once again grew quiet, and this time, he felt no need to fill in the gaps. "I knew that if I went back home, I could end up hurting them. Disrupting their lives at best, and placing them in danger at worst. So I…"

"Stayed away." Those gaps were crevices he knew too well.

When he had refocused again, he wasn't taken aback to find her eyes trained on him. "I tell you mine, you tell me yours."

Leo let out his own stuttering breath. "My story begins, and ends, with her." He leaned forward and placed his hand on Greenlee's picture. "With your treatments, did you ever experience any difficult side effects?"

"Yes."

"And when was the last time you experienced these effects?" He held that breath this time, only releasing it when she answered. "A few years. I think they gave me something that built up a resistance."

"That's what David had hoped. Some of his patients are experiencing the same things you and I did, but more intensely. They could –" He struggled to rein in the panic seeping through his voice. "They could be in a bad place if we don't help them." He did not school his hand as it rested on the picture again. "including my wife." Nor did he correct the designation he had assigned Greenlee.

The familiar stanger's eyes rotated between the gun and the picture. "You think I can help?"

Meeting her gaze, he responded with one word: "Yes." A silent plea.

She answered by picking up the gun, locking it in her desk, and reaching her hand across the desk.

He accepted the handshake.

"I'm Leo by the way."

Her hand was warm, alive. Its own affirmation.

Her renewed smile was unsure, topsy-turvy, but somehow right.

"And I'm Jenny."


	35. Chapter 35

Happy slightly-belated Father's Day to all the dads out there!

####

He had walked along a hundred bays, lakes, and rivers. He had seen his fair share of shimmering cities encased in liquid fossils. But considering the sight before him now, he was pretty sure that those fossils wouldn't be the precious artifacts he'd be digging out of his memory in fifty years.

The moonlight glinted off the water, immersing her in a pale aura. But not immersing.

Enhancing.

Pete touched her shoulder not because he was weighing the benefits or risks or evaluating his odds of being tossed into the water.

He did it because he could not _not_.

And when she turned toward him - minus a flinch, minus a shout, minus anything he might've reasonably expected in his more lucid moments - he forgot the proprieties again and smiled.

The soft light had settled in her eyes, and it _almost_ reached –

Lily faced the water again, hands to her sides.

Her lips moved soundlessly, and he knew the words, the facts, the numbers she had sought temporary refuge from were now bearing down. The spell was broken, because of him. If he left now, left her alone, maybe she could cast it again. That would be the logical thing to do, and he was nothing if not a logical guy.

Except now. Except with her.

Pete turned to the rippling mini-waves, the slight creak of the boathouse's floorboards providing a subtle punctuation to the silence. He placed his hands in his pockets and rocked slightly on his heels, creating a faint rhythm: a chorus.

"You can barely see the currents, but they are always there. Always moving. They could be attributed to water density, but I tend to think they are the result of some pretty impressive underwater topography."

"Bathymetry."

He pushed his glasses up, charmed even more – if it were indeed possible – by her correction. "Yes. It's just amazing how these things we cannot see have such an impact on what we do see."

The description was more adept than she could know.

"You lied….about everything."

Simple. Straightforward.

Her.

She deserved the same from him, or as much as he could give. "Lies are complicated things. We think of them as the opposite of truth. But sometimes….sometimes the two are mixed together. And sometimes, what you think is the truth is the real lie, and in the lies you find truth." He watched the tiny pulsebeats that sustained the water. It would probably be a miracle if anyone understood what he'd just said, but, somehow, he believed if anyone could, it was her.

He could offer her one untangled, one so very uncomplicated truth. "When you said I lied about everything, you were wrong." Pete took his glasses off, took a chance. In some ways, he had never seen more clearly. "I like you, Lily. I…"

Words, they were ultimately meaningless, which was maybe why he found so much trouble with them. On instinct, he slipped the glasses into her hand. After a long moment, her fingers closed around them.

"I'm going to do something now. And you can respond however feels right. Just…" His hand brushed hers, clasped it. "Don't be afraid."

By the time he'd reached the last word, it was a whisper, lost to the tantalizing brush of soft, so soft skin.

The gentle contact, punctuated by a warm breeze against his lips, cast him out on those swaying waves.

Until it all disappeared. He stood, dazed, still a little intoxicated, and the first tiny give underneath his feet anchored him back to reality. He wondered briefly if he'd been dreaming, until the glasses began weighting his hand.

He had been prepared for her to shove him in the water.

When he put the glasses back on and his sight adjusted onto a dark, empty night – and a lone yellow scarf laying on the floorboard, he realized that he had indeed fallen.

And he wasn't at all certain if he had the will, or the inclination, to get back up.

####

The sign said 'Closed.'

_Do not enter_.

_Hit the road, pal_.

But he had never allowed small detail such as these to stop him before. Adam straightened his tie – because no corporate mogul worth his salt would walk around with a crooked tie – and opened the door.

It was likely not advisable to return to the scene of his alleged crime. This was the closest thing to a watering hole within a ten-mile radius, though, and he needed the hard stuff right now. He had hoped some runt would be on closing duty. Then he could slip a cool hundred into that open cash rregister and he'd have free run of the stock room. He knew, from recent experience, how that place was where the _real _action happened.

He had bill, and plan, in hand when his hostess for the evening emerged from that very room, brandishing a dish towel.

"Do you want another trip to the pokey?"

Adam flipped the bill onto the counter and shook his head. Of course, why should the wonderful serendipity of this day produce anyone other than his _beloved_ ex-wife?

Krystal eyed him harder than the spilt coffee not receiving the attention of her towel. "And just what are you smirking about?"

Had he really been doing that? Well, perhaps it was fitting. "Please, resist the urge to sic your lapdogs on me this time, as it seems I no longer have a bail overseer."

It had taken him a whole day to realize his fiancée no longer bore that title. And it shouldn't have mattered. He was in the midst of his grand coup d'etat, after all. Brooke – well he'd danced this tango with her many times before, and they had always found their way back. This time would prove no different, so he should be indulging in his fine wine and toasting the rebirth of the storied Chandler legacy.

Then again, he should have been many things.

"I am a paying customer, and quite a generous tipper." Adam pushed the bill toward Krystal. " So perhaps you could indulge me this one imprompriety."

That stare, God, he'd forgotten how long she could hold it. And what a withering effect it could induce. Finally, she tossed the towel onto her shoulder and busied herself with the tap. In less than a minute, one foaming mug of some unidentified spirit was slammed down in front of him.

"Five minutes, and then I want you gone." She turned to leave.

"Aren't you going to join me?"

He didn't get the stare this time. Instead, he was gifted with another talent of hers: the patented one-eyebrow raise.

Adam lifted the mug. "We will toast to the imminent conclusion of the latest chapter in our little epic story."

In a matter of days, the judge would make his custody ruling, and Krystal would find herself on the losing end once again. The least he could do was buy her a drink.

"I would, Adam, but I'm afraid that the drink might end up somewhere it's not intended to be. And I wouldn't want you – or me – to make even better friends of the boys in blue."

"Come on," he coaxed. "Maybe you'll get lucky and my heart will finally give out on me."

"Don't –"

They both chose to ignore the incompletion of her statement, and other things settling in the room. Things they could not outrun forever, but perhaps could seek temporary refuge from.

"We'll make a drinking game of it," he added.

The brow raise did double-time. "You? You, who could never hold an ounce of liquor at my pow-wows?" The smirk, for a moment, became something else. Something more genuine. "I remember when –" And, just as quickly, it was gone. "What would be the rules of this _game_?"

This time, he owned the smirk. "I recall a rather uncivilized display I had the misfortune of witnessing at one of said 'pow-wows.' I believe it involved making a statement beginning with -"

"'Never Have I Ever.'" He hadn't noticed the second mug that had materialized in front of his own, or the set of steeled eyes hovering above it. Challenging.

"I believe…" He cleared his throat. "I believe, one must drink if he or she has indeed partaken in the statement at hand. Ane one wins when one's drink is completely gone."

The brow quirked again. "With our histories, do you see this game lasting long? I say the one who's left holding the empty mug at the end is the loser. Think of it as a small indictment."

Adam held the gaze this time. "Sounds…fitting."

"What are the stakes?"

His lips curved again. "Our everlasting souls, of course." Hardened. "I'll start."

He twirled the mug and evaluated the woman in front of him. "Never have I ever dyed my hair."

And with that reasonably honest assertion, he tallied the first victory as his companion took a hearty gulp.

Within minutes, a litany of ruths and half-truths had filtered through the rapidly blanketing haze in his skull.

"Never have I ever visited another country."

"Never have I ever worn a pair of jeans."

"Never have I ever stayed in a five-star. "

At some point, through the pounding in his head, he heard himself blurting "Have I never….ever appreciated a sunset."

But that didn't sound right. And he could have sworn that somehow, he'd ended up at a window, watching neon colors bleed together. Watching the masterpiece freeze for one glorious snapshot before fading from its endless canvas.

He drank.

Soft words startled him. Spun all around. Settled within. "My biggest regret is that I never did enough for my kids, not when it mattered."

She stood beside him, watching him now as intensely as he had watched the sky.

He stumbled back to his stool and, with a trembling hand, set the mug down.

They were both nearly….drained.

She had resumed her place across from him, his adversary, his...

Adam could attribute his final challenge to the swirl of cotton candy and dizzying bright lights and steady drums…to the carnival in his head that had him aiming for the prize.

"Never have I ever given you, or us, a second thought."

He waited for his glorious victory, his crowning -

"You first."

"What?"

She leaned on her elbows then, closer….close enough to - "You drink first."

Adam rose, placed his weight on the counter. "You think I don't know what's still there, hmm, underneath all the hate?"

She matched his stance, drew closer. "You think 'I' don't know what..." Just a whisper now, that crackled against his ear nonetheless. "...or who, you keep in those dark and musty little corners of your depraved mind for…stimulation on those long, long nights?"

"That's…" An ever-commanding, ever-stuttering slur.

"Prove it." Clear.

Crystal.

And Adam Chandler had never met a challenge he couldn't conquer.

Both mugs crashed to the floor, spilling their contents.

Creating a stalemate.

Or a mutual loss.

####

"My last year of junior high. I'd finally….finally made it to first starter. Had a helluva fastball. And despite the fact they'll usually bury the pitchers at the bottom of the lineup, I was a pretty damn good hitter too. It was my first all-star game. Real special occasion, so everybody was there. Everybody made the effort. And even though…even though I'd struck out more than I'd struck out the other team that night, even though we still went down by one when it was all said and done, when I got that last triple in the bottom of the ninth...I'd never felt anything like it. And it wasn't because I'd driven in our last run. It wasn't because that hardass coach was finally fist-pumping from the dugout. Didn't even matter that Stacy Tucker was clapping just over from the third base line. It was looking up and seeing them, both of them, smling at the same time. At me. For me." JR let out a short laugh. "Pathetic, I know…my grand childhood memory."

She wore a faint smile. Humoring him, for what reason he couldn't fathom. "No, it's not." Cara studied her hands, but the smile remained. "My mom, she….she was protective. She kept me away from most things, most of the crazy little inconsequential things that kids do. One day, I saw some girls outside playing softball. I begged…I pleaded with my mom, and, eventually, she let me go. Just for an hour, she let me go. And it's that hour I would think about every day when I had to stay out of school. Every day when I watched from the window. Every day when I went to the hospital and -"

He didn't want her to stop. And he didn't know why it should bother him so much that she did.

She slipped back into doctor mode. "Imagery visualization has proven positive benefits, which is why I think it is important for you. Take that image and keep it close."

JR tried to rattle the mess from his head, tried to slip back into his own default mode. "Sounds like magical thinking for a magical cure. Since when did your duties include physical therapy, anyway?"

"Since the day I came here to try and remember the reasons why I'm a doctor." The tiny clench in her jaw signaled repressed anger. And why had he been such a faithful student of her habits, of insignificant, significant things that made her _her_. Why did it matter so damn much?

Guilt. Just...guilt for debts he could never repay.

"Your spinal injury is incomplete. If you put in the work, you still have the chance to make a recovery."

"Maybe I don't want –" He cut the thought off, just like he did when his lawyer informed him of the 'wonderful' news that he had been cleared in the murder of Ryan Lavery.

"Maybe you don't want to walk again? Maybe that will clear the slate? Maybe it will make you feel better to spend the rest of your life chained to that chair, drowning in your misery and self-pity….until the transformation is finally complete and you become the worthless bastard everyone thinks you are?"

He clenched the rails until his fingers numbed. "Yes, damnit!" And no matter how hard he squeezed, the numbness would not spread. He felt every spike in his blood pressure. Every beat in his heart. Every bit of chaos still coursing through his brain.

And JR felt every step.

When he stood face-to-face with Cara – her wide-eyed wonder an accompaniment to his first genuine burst of laughter in over a year, he felt….everything.

And like every other moment in his life, each step forward was paid in full with one hundred back.

Five minutes later, as he sat in his cell and listened to hurried steps fade down the long corridor, he realized that Cara was right about the imagery thing.

One image, one sensation, one colossally stupid, unfathomable testament to his lack of impulse control was seared on his still-burning cheek. On his lips.

One kiss, and one subsequent slap, replayed on an endless loop in his mind's eye.

And in places, too many places to count, no longer dormant.

####

"What the hell?"

It was, indeed, an apt description.

Bathed in twisted ribbons of crimson and black, the room did resemble an underworld portal. At its center, one little devil was hard at work.

Bianca would not acknowledge the uneasiness creeping into her legs (just phantom pain, nothing more) as she pushed into the room and as the darkness swallowed her.

"It would be a dark room," came the bemused response.

"You know, there is this little concept called digital photography now. You might want to look it up."

"I prefer, how do you say it, 'old-class.'"

"Old-school."

"Yes, I prefer the methods of the pioneers. They understood things we don't...or cannot. Though I must say, this room is much more manageable than my last 'darkroom': a converted ambulance in –"

The woman ddin't finish the thought. Bianca shouldn't have found herself frustrated at that. Yet...

"There is no feeling quite like watching an image materialize before your eyes. It makes you feel engaged, _alive_. Come here and I'll show you."

The reddish glow emanating from the workstation was one of the only sources of light in the room, so Bianca moved toward it….the moth prepared to gets its wings singed - if not burned off - by the flame. Somehow, she was betting on the latter.

"Do you think this will work with the headline?" Yasmin stepped back, ever the proud mama ready to unveil her _baby_ to the world.

Two figures and a miniature story – a tell-all, in fact – slowly emerged onto the blank paper. It could be titled 'The Diamond Guru and the Arms Dealer,' done up in retro-style black-and-white glossy. Their artist had done their injustice justice.

Bianca looked up at Yasmin, whose eyes were glowing with a feverish intensity. Four more trays were lined along the table, each a spark ready to be ignited.

For her part, Bianca only had one response. "What the hell were you thinking?"

Yasmin tilted her head. "You certainly fancy that phrase, don't you?"

The combo scowl and smirk only served to light a match to Bianca's anger. "How did you get these? Were you tailing these guys? You know, it's bad enough that Brooke thinks I need a babysitter, but now I'm the one stuck with babysitting duties. I promised Reggie that I'd keep you out of trouble., especially while he was gone. Then you go and do the equivalent of playing in traffic. Unbelievable, but typical, I guess."

"Are you ready to take a breath now?" Those arms were infuriatingly folded. "Typical, huh? Please do enlighten me." The intensity in those eyes now burned with something else.

Added fuel.

Bianca pushed away from the picture, repositioned herself, and stared directly into those burning eyes. "It's just another example of your complete inability to do what you're supposed to do."

"You mean to do what I'm told? I'm not a child, I'm sure as hell not a prisoner, and I don't need a handler." With each subsequent tick-off, Yasmin's voice lowered, and her words grew more emphatic.

Bianca did the arm-crossing this time because if her hands were free, she might just use them to wring someone's neck. "No, because that would get in the way of your favorite pastime: playing games. But I've got news for you, sweetheart – real early edition: your game's over."

"What game?" She had the gall to look genuinely confused. Genuinely…pissed.

Bianca's hands braced themselves on the cold bars of her chair and squeezed. A reasonable substitute. "The game you're running on my brother, lady. It ends now."

"I would _never_ hurt Reggie."

"Why should I believe that?"

"Because he's been there for me. He's trusting, loyal -"

"He's not a pet dog. He's your –"

"He's my best friend. He knows everything about me, and I know everything about him. We are 100 percent honest with each other, always."

"In the midst of this little testimonial, I haven't once heard the the word love."

"I do love Reggie."

"Are you in love with him?"

"I—"

"It's a simple question, only requires a 'yes'…." A beat. "…or a 'no.'"

She wouldn't answer, which was answer enough.

"That's what I thought." Bianca spun the chair toward the door, ready to get the hell out of this hell-in-training. She had a phone call to make, to her brother.

"He's helping me."

The confession should have strengthened her resolve. It shouldn't have stopped her in her tracks. "So you are using him."

"No."

Exasperation. Frustration. Unbeliavable nerve.

"Reggie knows that I can't –"

"Can't what? Be the wife you should be."

"It's not like that."

She should leave. Right now. Should really... "Then what is it like? Why can't you -"

Maybe it was the rush of air as her chair abruptly wheeled around that robbed Bianca of the words. Or it could've been the soft lips now roughly pressed against her own, muffling a string of incomprehensible syllables.

She should have stopped the kamikaze kiss. Right now.

Anytime in the near future.

Should...should...should...

Instead, Bianca bunched maddeningly thick hair in her hands and did what she always did best.

She engaged in full-force, mutual combat.


	36. Chapter 36

If the theme of the last chapter could be summarized as "Just a Kiss?", perhaps this chapter could be known as "Confession is Good (or is it?) for the Soul"…

####

When one of them pulled away, ragged breaths, an insistent bongo drumbeat, and one prolonged groan echoed. Bianca couldn't bring herself to claim ownership of the latter.

A thousand well-placed condemnations and validations also danced on the edges of lips that still burned. She couldn't seem to take ownership of those either.

So she opted, or was rather roundly pushed, into the safer role: dumb and mute.

"That…"

She might normally take some small comfort in the fact that her companion – who was finally coming into clear, too-damn-clear, focus – had been rendered the same. Comfort, and maybe a little –

"That is why Reggie and I's relationship can never be traditional." _Her_ breathing, at least, had steadied out, and her eyes locked with Bianca's. "I am gay."

Surely, surely that merited at least an 'I knew you were lying to him.' One calculated strike she could deliver, if only to cut a swath through these other….things jumbling though her.

"You're…" Bianca swallowed, lubricated the cracks in her voice, put force into the words that sounded too weak, too brittle and unsure: too much the ghost of someone she never wanted to be, or know, again. "You're trying to distract me. It won't work."

Yasmin had settled on the counter, far enough away to void the accusation. "Reggie wanted you to be the first person we told. He said you would understand better than anybody - that you would be there for us, because you were always there for him. His compass."

Each word wasn't a sledgehammer, but a tiny chisel. Slowly, slowly doing its job. With every word, she heard her brother. With every word, she heard the truth.

A trace of a smile. "He said I would like you, that we'd be friends. The best."

Bianca met eyes that held a more bitter smile. She opened her mouth but, once again, couldn't quite sort through the jumble inside.

"After - after we had been here a while, I convinced him that we should keep our arrangement a secret for now. It would make things easier."

She could have protested or built up a supply of righteous indignation, but trust, Bianca knew too well, had to be earned if it would mean anything.

And she couldn't honestly say she had earned that distinction in some time.

"Many places do not pretend to be even semi-tolerant. Consider it a small blessing that you live here, where who you are is not a crime…nor a reason to die."

Now she looked into eyes that were not seeing her, that were watching their own phantom brigade march into well-traversed enemy territory.

"Is that why you can't go back, because you're gay?"

The woman still kneeling in front of her accomplished another impossible task, residing in two times, two places. "That's part of it, but I've had years of practice in negotiating who I was with who my culture expected me to be. Other things, they were non-negotiable."

Bianca had prided herself on her ability to make the answers appear. To work her own form of hypnosis when needed. This time, though, eloquent words were replaced by only two: "Like what?"

And the answer, delivered with a pair of direct, honest, open eyes, was equally simple: "Like freedom."

####

He was tall for his age, but he couldn't have been any older than eleven or twelve. If the lingering baby fat on his cheeks didn't make that clear, then the quiet quake of his lip underneath that pout of defiance surely did the trick.

The kid was hugging his knees, making even his large frame look like a small ball on the hospital table. The swirl of nurses had mercifully slowed down, but Reggie couldn't be sure if they'd have more than a minute. With a glance to his sister, he approached the boy, whose gaze remained fixed somewhere in the distance.

"Listen, you're not in trouble, okay? We just want to help you out if trouble happens to have found you and, by the looks of what happened –"

"That ain't nothing. Forget it."

Well, at least they knew the kid could speak now. Progress. "It didn't look like nothing."

This earned eye contact. "Why don'tcha keep to your business? You trying to get me punted off again?"

Randi, the hopeful 'good cop,' stepped forward. "No. Trust me, we both know the system…too well" That statement, at least, got a full head-turn. "We just wanted to talk with you about Tyrone."

At the mention of their brother's name, the kid's front crumbled and his eyes got bigger. "I didn't say nothing. You can't tell him I did! He already thinks I -" The boy had learned too early the art – the survival tactic – of the Fifth Amendment, street-style.

The twisting in Reggie's gut was making things clear. Clear, and familiar.

"How do you even know Ty?" the kid asked, obviously relieved to be taking his turn at interrogator.

Reggie shared another silent exchange with his sister before turning back. "He's our brother."

Surprise was overtaken by a fierce blinking and a noticeable roughness in the kid's voice. "He's my brother. Foster, but still the same."

"I know." Reggie took hold of the boy's shoulder. "So we have something in common. None of us wants anybody else to get hurt, especially Tyrone."

The young face was almost swallowed by the hood around it: that hood that had always symbolized brotherly bonds, starting with Georgie. The rough-soft fabric of one sleeve swiped at an eye. "Then you gotta know I can't rat him out."

Reggie studied that fabric. He didn't have the fancy preparatory notes from law school. He just had experience. Hard-earned. "I'm going to tell you a story now, and you can feel free to stop me any time if it doesn't….sound right. Taking comfort from the warmth now covering his own shoulder, Reggie closed his eyes and began. "There was a boy who never cared much about anything or anybody. But that wasn't really true. He liked to put on a show for the guys: be Mr. Tough. Part of his problem was that in reality, he cared too damn much. Especially about his family. Especially about the guy, the big brother, he thought of as a superhero. Not the kind with the cape or the big-bad abilities, but the real deal. This boy would never admit that to anybody else, though. It would totally wipe out his street cred. But the thing is, he'd do just about anything to be the kind of guy in his brother's eyes that his brother always was in his. Even when he knew those things weren't on the up-and-up. Even when he knew they were probably illegal. And even if he had to be his hero's great sacrifice."

Reggie's eyes opened before the closing scene could take its bow on the stage: the hero's fall. He knew the script by heart.

And two innocent eyes, witness to their own script, revealed nothing and everything…everything Reggie needed to know.

The kid's mouth opened, but the words never found their way.

They were cut off by an interruption.

Not a nurse this time or even a doctor. Just a slightly winded Frankie. "He gave me the slip." And slightly frantic. "Tyrone's gone."

####

The butt of the gun had left a blackening bruise on his stomach. Their brand.

Their reminder.

In the cage's corner, Amanda was mostly still. She was trying hard, so hard, not to let it show. But she couldn't entirely control the slight shake that had claimed her arm. Her hand rested on a clear patch of skin below her shoulder: the place where that sonofabitch had grabbed her and tried to –

Jake's jaw shook with the effort of keeping it in place, and with the rush of blood beating against his temples. He had been able to hold them off, keep her safe, by dangling the glittering carrot he knew they wanted in front of them. That carrot, that reason for this whole nightmare, was the only thing standing between them and dangers he'd wrongly stashed away in a little box in the corner of his mind.

He approached her, his hand paralyzed mid-air, caught between action and inaction: too familiar a choice.

Jake chose the middle ground - the neutral in a land of anything-buts - and sat beside her. He could give her one uncompromising offering right now: the truth Moistening cracked lips, he began.

"You would think that the mines would be the worst part, and in many ways, they are. Minimal protection, the most primitive tools, hours in the sun, and…the overseers. But the rivers, those are the real hidden dangers, because you just don't know what calls those muddy waters home. That's where so many of the problems came from. One day this kid – this litte boy just like that boy out…out there - he's burning up with fever and I know it's just gonna be me counting down the minutes. Maybe trying to make him believe in something good, something real before…but he's got me beat at that, because all he can talk about - all he can whisper about in this strangled dalect I can barely understand is his hidden treasure. How he's got the map and how he's gonna take his family away on a big pirate ship and would I please help him. Keep it safe until he's better."

Jake ran a calloused hand down his face because it was the best way, the only way, to get rid of the grime, to take away what he could. Until a softer touch on his cheek showed him another way. The lump in his throat cut, burned, and scraped, rendered his voice raw.

"That piece of paper, I almost tossed it a hundred times. Thought about taking it to his…to his grave and burying it with him. One day, I just started walking. Made it past the living quarters, past the the matchboxes scattered along the rusted ground, until there was only this red sea left. Land-locked and endless. I followed his map and found his treasure, just like he said. A bounty of diamonds, buried in a cove not even they would dare go near. I just sat there for hours staring at those things, those indestructible things that had destroyed so much. And I looked at the red sand on my hands….how it caked into the lines, accumulated and how, sometimes, when they gave me the money for medical supplies, you could even see traces of it there. Sometimes undetectable, but always there: bloodstains you could never wash away, not really. I made a special trip to the overseers' camp that night and made a deal: my knowledge, my key to the kingdom, for them. For their freedom." He motioned to the mines and its inhabitants – its people – beyond the dark walls. Only one problem had existed with his grand plan. His fellow negotiators weren't big believers in the fair trade system. "I left the camp again when Aidan Devane rescued me."

He waited, ready, willing, for the outrage and the barely concealed dsgust.

Amanda's reaction was more quiet, understated. But, to him, it meant everything. Jake held his wife for untold minutes, gladly counting every blessing in his life a hundred times over. When their embrace finally ended, the fire reflecting back at him was all her. Every bit the woman he loved, and would love – protect – for the rest of his life.

"So I take it they want their treasure map back?" she asked.

Jake nodded. "And we'll give them exactly what they want." The fire had lit a match, ignited a spark "Right before we take them down and get us – all of us – the hell out of here."

####

(2010)

The camp boiled under a thick mist of humidity. Since the last strike – this one a strategic blow to the government's propaganda machine – their main foe was the monotony that characterized so much of the resistance. They all knew that their true goals would not be crowned on the fiery head of some glorious battle, but on the wavering, steady backs of consistent hard work.

Yasmin climbed into the ambulance, a blown-out shell that had been relegated to the scrapyard. It would never have everything she wanted, but it contained the rudimentary seeds of everything she needed. Scanning the pictures hanging on the grimy piece of rope filled her with both pride and sickness. She had captured the real faces of the rebels. Not the half-crazed savages the well-oiled propaganda rags presented to the citizens, but grim, determined, faces full of their own form of beauty. The true faces of their foes were also revealed: the monsters behind the masks, behind the formal attire and the eloquent sermons.

She pulled down one photo – possibly the best shot of her career. It paid homage to its subject, her youngest ever, in stunning, crisp detail. It immortalized the beauty of innocence, of life….and the precise moment when it vanished. When it was lost forever.

Her fingers dug into the black-and-white image. The image crumbled into a blur as her eyes stung. It reappeared, fully animated and fully alive, before her other eye; the one that could supply cinematic-quality detail and a full 4D sensory experience.

Blindly, she reached for the trashbin. When two arms wrapped around her and warmth like no other she'd ever known pressed against her shoulder, she released the photo.

And long-held tears released a story they had longed to tell.

In this ambulance, in this place, she had all that she needed.

All that she would ever need.

It was her last thought before the first explosion.

(_Present_)

The light – the remnant – forced her eyes open. Forced her back.

"Her name was Sadiya. Sadie. We met shortly after I started working with the resistance. She was one of their best, the leader without the title. And I loved her."

"You talk about her in the past. "

Try as she might, Yasmin could not escape the pull of the other woman's words. She had nowhere to flee but back, after all - back to places she never wanted to revisit. "They attacked our camp and, more than anything, they wanted their example." Yasmin could only look forward. "She took her last breath in my arms. When it's really quiet at night, that's the sound I hear."

Into eyes that flinched only slightly. Held her gaze.

That understood.

"I'm s - it wasn't your - " That understood enough not to finish those thoughts.

Bianca cleared her throat instead. "How did you make it out?"

"A few connections." She shrugged. "And an entire parcel of luck."

"Surely you could have gotten political asylum."

The ever-elusive goal. "Reggie's father is trying to help us. It is why we came here."

"Uncle Jack knows?"

She nodded, full of gratitude for the once-stranger who had become her advocate and, she would like to think, her friend. "It is a complex of regulations, though, and, even if granted, the process takes time."

"Time you may not have if they send you back. And that's where my brother comes in."

Beneath all the bluster and the threats, Yasmin knew the fierce protective instinct that drove Bianca's actions. Just as she knew the woman would not apologize when some questionable choices sprung forth from that drive. It was a balance she herself knew intimately.

"We will end the marriage when the appeal has concluded, however it may conclude. I can assure you of that." And it was an assurance she intended to honor, even if their appeal was denied, even if –

"Can it?"

An easy enough question, but it caught her by surprise nonetheless.

No less than Bianca's ever-subtle smile, however. "I'm sure you've seen one or two American movies celebrating the storied marriage of convenience. This town's had its fair share of those scripts played out. Just ask my sister. You can also ask her about the inevitable 'twist' ending, when true love blossoms."

"That won't happen –"

"Not for you, maybe. But what about Reggie? I need to know that you won't break my brother's heart."

She truly couldn't help it, and she really did try to control it, at the very least. But the properly perturbed expression on the other woman's face sent a fresh spasm of laughter. "My apologies," she finally managed, which only caused the crease in Bianca's brow to deepen. "It's just the thought of Reggie and I…never mind." She could do this. She worked hard for the straight, prim line now gracing her mouth. "I can also assure you that Reggie has no romantic interest whatsoever in me."

That assertion was especially easy to make considering her friend had spent the past year pining over a mystery woman who had blazed into his life, only to blaze out just as quickly…and mysteriously.

"Fine, okay. I get it." Bianca's words were practically ground out, and a pair of crossed arms completed the effect.

She really wanted to retain this one light moment, this one break from the tension of remembering, of confessing, and of other tensions better left unacknowledged.

"Since we have established that I am not , how do you say it, a black widow, do you think we can return to the task at hand?" She swept a hand toward the well-dried pictures.

After a long pause, Bianca wheeled to the table. It was a small victory Yasmin would take.

"By the way, I won't say anything."

The promise was barely a mutter, delivered as Bianca busied herself with examing the second batch of photographs.

Yasmin smiled and took advantage of the rare opportunity to really examine the other woman. Bianca was still illuminated by the soft glow of the light. When she absently tucked a hair behind her ear, Yasmin felt her smile expanding in spite of itself. "By the way, I'm sorry about earlier."

The sideways glance lit a match to her face that she couldn't entirely blame on the lights. She gestured at her lips and quickly looked away. "You know, you wouldn't be quiet, so I..."

"Needed to shut me up?"

"Yes, I mean –" The burning intensified. "I was just trying to make my point, that's all."

"Consider the point well-made." The bemused smirk shifted a fraction before both looked away.

Yes, just a kiss.

Just one well-made point.

That was all.


	37. Chapter 37

So, kinda big news week on the AMC front. Congrats to them on their new TV deal!

And, happy upcoming birthday USA!

There might be some fireworks coming up, but not necessarily in the sky...

####

"He was even more of a disaster than me, if you can believe that. Couldn't start a fire. Couldn't catch a fish if it jumped right into his hands. He was probably the only person in the world who couldn't even grasp the fine art of burning a marshmallow. And the tent, forget it. I think we finally had something one might call a tarp by the time we left on the third morning. But none of that mattered, really. I would have gladly gone on that camping trip a hundred times over, because it was just the two of us."

Angie had a dreamlike smile that was probably attributable to the ongoing effects of the serum. David could not blame the serum for the unfamiliar tug on his own lips.

Her awareness had already lasted much longer than usual, which he had to take as a good sign. All they could do was wait - wait for what would hopefully become her last 'sleep' before she awoke to her new life.

Her old life.

The conversation was a logical way to pass the time and to keep her disjointed mind in a relaxed state. He could claim that's why they had been talking for the better part of two hours, or he could admit that the words just came...naturally.

More naturally than at any time in his life.

The exchanges had not been filled with the intensity, the confusion, or the emotional confessions of previous conversations. Rather, they had spoken of the trivial, the inconsequential: best books, most hated mores (an admittedly long list for him), even favorite colors. His last story had arisen from a debate about ideal vacation locales. Angie favored mountainous locations on a crisp fall day; she had expected him to argue the merits of a crystallized beach and a five-star hotel. To her surprise,, though, he had agreed. The few precious days he had retreated to the mountains with his father - minus the sharp tongue and even sharper glares of Vanessa -remained the images that would likely be seared on his eyelids in his final moments. He might even admit that the cabin he could never quite sell was an attempt to preserve this small, but still ever-present part of himself.

"And what, Dr. Hubbard, is your ultimate wish: the one that defies all reason?"

In spite of the question, those eyes were no longer dream-like. They were as clear, as crisp, as the fall rainbows he remembered. "To help my granddaughter see that the boogeymen in her dreams really aren't so scary after all. Mostly, to help her see that behind every monster is really just a man...a human being."

The statement accomplished its own impossible task and made him look away.

"And yours, Dr. Hayward? What is your ultimate wish? An idol in your honor? World domination?"

The teasing words had managed to capture him again.

A soft smile graced her face. That smile remained even as her eyes closed.

He traced that smile, softer still, with his lips as his thumb brushed her cheek.

"To love unselfishly," he whispered.

Moments later, David's gaze lingered one final time before he closed the door, leaving the sleeping beauty to reawaken to her life – and, soon, to her family.

To the love she deserved.

####

He had left the note on the counter - out of the boys' reach - and gone out the back way. The nobleman or the coward: his lifelong cross.

Kendall read one line, a quiet, forceful "Hell, no, not this time," escaping her before she followed him out the door.

Twenty steps behind. Silent, but firm steps.

Stealth, but determined.

The Kane way.

Her way.

#

Zach had taken to examining his hands: the novel minus the ending. Mystery, dark comedy...genre undefined.

He looked up and saw her.

Love story.

Tragedy or otherwise, to be determined.

"You tailed me." Not a question. The tiny, bemused smirk, he could not help. This was his wife, after all. He could not have expected, and perhaps he did not want, anything less.

"Yeah, I did." The unspoken _and what are you gonna do about it_?

What he could do was nod. "I didn't –" He cleared his throat, tried to twist the words out with a roll of the neck. "I wasn't sure you would—"

_I didn't want to hurt you anymore. _

_I wasn't sure you would care._

"You did, and I do."

She squeezed his hand, her gold glinting atop his. The rings created their own kind of screwed-up infinity.

He looked back up, saw that same promise reflected in oceanic eyes he could drown in on a good day.

"I always will," she said.

Epicly screwed up, or maybe just epic.

####

Beneath the white coat, the shorter hair, the creases that life always created, and the puzzling smirk he'd worn and 'of course, it's kismet' he'd uttered when she had first spoken of her family, David was still the guy who had saved her life.

Now, she had quite literally cut open a vein for that guy.

Somehow, someway, these strangers had become Jenny's most trusted confidantes.

Her mind still couldn't quite wrap around that fact, any more than it could absorb the fact she was now listening to the man who had saved her engage in a spirited discussion with someone else he had apparently saved: one of her oldest, dearest friends.

Even through the barrier of the door, she and Leo were privy to every increasingly loud exchange.

"You need to be monitored longer. We still don't know the long-term -"

"For the first time in so long, I actually 'have' a long-term to think about….to dream about. To remember!"

"Angie, I just want you to be –"

"I know." The words had leveled off, nearly inaudible. Neither Jenny nor her companion were shame-faced when they both cupped hands to the door.

"I already had one wish granted today. I saw the man behind the monster."

For just a moment, all trace of the physician was gone. "You remember -"

"Yes." The words, barely a whisper now. "Everything, David."

The pause was so long that Jenny wondered briefly if they were even still inside. When David spoke again, his voice had resumed its doctorly tone. "I need to get some more work done on this treatment, ideally at the hospital." A deep sigh punctuated the words. "You can come with me. At least then, you'll be in a place where you can be taken care of."

"I realize that my recovery's far from complete. And I will admit myself as soon as possible. But first –"

"She needs to see her family. She needs to face her past." Only when she saw Leo enter the room did Jenny realize the space beside her was empty.

And only when Angie let out a gasp on the examination table did Jenny realize that she had followed behind.

"We'll take her home." She gave Angie a shaky smile. "I have a lot of explaining to do." Her eyes briefly met Leo's, who silently made the same pact. "And it's time for all of us to come home."

####

They were talking about mergers, acquisitions, corporate debt & equity, and every other buzz word familiar to the hob-knobbers.

Difference was, they were having a damn good time doing it.

Erica had all the formalities in order: fine wine, complete with the pinkie-liftm fancy decanters, those little bird-sized drops of food. And, of course, the clusters of dressed-up-to-the-nines humanity.

The woman who brought some much-needed splashes of color to this little black-and-white affair...well, she was the real star. And those little orbital clusters drifted to her, almost as if they had no other choice.

As Opal led Cortlandt Electronics' movers and shakers in a spirited round of _Name That Tune_, Tad turned to his wife, a welcome lightness blooming in his chest. Finding the space beside him unoccupied, he scanned the room for his other party guest. But Jesse, rather than taking advantage of the rare break from babysitting duties (between Angela, Trevor, and Kathy, they'd gotten a 3-for-1 discount special), was preoccupied by an intense-looking whisper-session with Brot. Tad lifted his glass and sighed. "To good times."

#

Jesse hesitated, not at all sure he wanted the answer to his next question. "And?"

Brot pulled out his phone. Within seconds, a grainy image appeared on the screen. The figure, unmistakably a man. Umistakably a very angry man. And the voice, unmistakably the man Jesse had come to view as a friend.

"And," Brot said, "we may have just found our number one suspect."

####

Zach closed the door to Joe's office. Unlike the other times, the waiting room was not empty.

A significant difference he despised...and secretly welcomed.

He took a seat and waited for his verdict.

#

Somehow, he knew who he would find waiting for him at the nurse's desk.

The man, still flanked by security, crossed his arms as Joe approached.

"David," he breathed more than said.

"Dr. Martin, now that I have your attention, could we please have some privacy?" The question, not really a question at all, was accompanied by a sideways appraisal of the small gaggle of hospital employees surrounding them.

He could have played the power-flexing game with David now, but he had a patient waiting for him who really couldn't afford the time wasted.

Joe motioned into the nearest empty room and David followed.

In stark contrast to his usual manner, the hospital's former star cardiologist minced no words.

"I need your help, Doctor."

What David Hayward lacked in tact he certainly compensated for in unpredictability.

Just as Joe was estimating the approximate time needed for security to toss David out the emergency room door, the man got a reprieve - and Joe's immediate attention - with his next words.

"I need your help for the sake of Greenlee Smythe. And for the sake of your patient, Zach Slater."

####

Their search for Jesse Hubbard had led them to this rather unexpected locale.

They parked in a seldom-used, practically unknown back parking lot. The biggest house on the block carried such amenities. And Leo knew the lot well. He had, after all, had more than a few interesting adventures with Greenlee in this very lot when he called said house home.

He glanced in the rearview mirror. "We don't have to do this now, you know?"

Two sets of determined eyes told him otherwise.

Raising his own eyes up toward the star-filled sky, Leo shrugged and muttered "Now or never."

#

"How is sh – how are they doing?" he asked before Dixie had even come to a full stop.

She had been busted in her secret phone call slip-away.

They had agreed this would be a night to support his mother. A night to unwind. A night away from….from the world.

But they both knew that their real world waited just a few blocks over.

"Trevor and Angie, believe it or not, actually went to sleep without much of a fuss."

Tad nodded, trying to form the question he really wanted to ask.

Dixie smiled, taking his arm. "She's watching 'Rugrats Go to Paris' with the sitter."

His own grin blooming, Tad wished he was sitting on that couch right now. "it's her favorite. She always loves it when I do the accents."

It was a wonderful image, a wonderful dream unaccompanied by worries about weighing the right pronouns or forming the right words for the rest of his family.

Sitting on that couch, laughing, and just...being. With Kathy. With Dixie. With his world.

So helplessly captivated was he by this image that it took him longer to notice that the current world he was occupying had unceremoniously spun off its axis.

All guests had turned to the grand doors, their faces a varied collection of every imaginable expression.

Except Opal, who had collapsed in a dead faint.

Dead. Funny irony, considering the three uninvited guests now crowding the doorway.

Tad might have appreciated the irony better if he didn't find himself grasping the railing for dear life.

If, in a desperate effort to avoid joining his mother on the floor, his hand wasn't reaching out...to his dead sister.


	38. Chapter 38

I know that Project Orpheus wasn't exactly a big favorite amongst many, but it's one of those things I think is really kind of hard to sweep under the rug (although nuAMC is certainly trying). Kinda like trying to stuff a portly genie back in a bottle : ) I do think the basic idea, although it could get a little sci-fi, had some intriguing possibilities with all of the stem cell research being done. All things considered, I decided to use the idea in this story and explore the benefits, and the ramifications…

####

Years.

Years it had taken _not_ to see her baby's face every time she slept…when she could sleep.

Even then God wasn't so cruel as to make the dream haunt her waking hours.

But Opal was wide awake now; she had even rubbed her eyes to prove the point.

And her sweet baby was still there.

The ultimate cruelty this time, because Jenny was as she would be. Older, more beautiful, if possible: the woman she was meant to become.

"No, please."

It was her last grasp. Last defense. An attempt to give back the miracle before it took everything away from her.

"Mama…"

That was her Tad. Her steady rock. She reached toward his voice. Reached for everything she was worth, because he would give her that cheeky grin and chide her for passing out, regular sack of potatoes, in the middle of her own party. He would make things real again.

And her boy _was_ sporting that grin: that wonderful, beautiful grin, bigger than it'd been in so long.

It was only rivaled by the amazingly crooked smile next to it.

Her boy and her baby girl. Together.

She reached out again, and her trembling fingers touched both. Touched light

Light that ignited, brightened.

"Oh…."

The word, this time her own, was equally trembling.

"Oh -"

"It's real, Mama."

Then she had her babies in her arms and nothing else mattered.

The psychic without the benefit of her premonitions, delivered the best vision of her life.

####

No train whistles. No slow-motion. No fog forcing everything else away.

Different, but the same.

It was still just them.

And she was still the woman for whom he'd gladly jump off a thousand buildings.

Jesse closed his eyes at the first touch. Caressed, like a hungry man – a starving man - the soft, firm skin. Savored one lungful (because he couldn't bring himself to exhale and take in a second) of the perfume without the price tag: earthy and unmistakably _her_. Heard the subtle steel that was her voice, her trademark - whittled down to syllables, sounds comprehensible only to them. And tasted….God, he tasted that once-and-gone moment when everything rises, converges….and sets itself right. That grab for perfect. Tasted it for everything it was worth.

He closed his eyes because he could not open them to a fading dream.

Not again.

Not ever again.

But a sweet teasing underneath his eyes, with slow, almost reverent circular movements, wiped away the moisture collected there. Wiped away the doubts.

Caught ti all.

His dream-catcher, coaxing.

Jesse opened his eyes to see his dream, fully formed. Pressed fully against him, her heartbeat awakening him. Bringing him back to life, all over again.

"How –"

And giving him that smile that crushed the half-formed question.

Because right then, he didn't give two hot damns about the answer.

"Shh." The only acknowledgement before she brought that smile, and those eyes, closer.

And that's all the answer he needed.

####

Watching the scenes in front of him unfold felt like watching a movie. There was apprehension as his companions approached shocked loved ones, followed by joy and even a little water in the eyes as those whitened expressions transformed into joy he would have once laughed off as some impossible pipe dream.

But there was also a disconnect. A distance. The fact was that he could only pick about four people in this room out of a lineup, and the ones he did know were otherwise, rightfully occupied.

His companions were where they needed to be, at last.

Where he needed to be: right beside a hospital bed miles away.

When his heart and his feet took their first steps toward the door, toward that destination, a light touch on the shoulder stopped him.

Leo turned to see one of those aforementioned faces in the lineup sporting an easy and somehow knowing smile – one only she could manage.

His own smile tugging at his lips, he shrugged, scanning the room again and settling on two people who were willfully entrapped in a world of their own making. "Would you look at that? Upstaged at my own back-from-the-dead pow-wow. A guy just can't catch a break, huh?"

Erica responded by capturing him in a surprisingly strong hug. Quite a feat considering the rather noticeable height difference, but he'd gladly take the momentary crick in his back.

"Welcome home," she said, minus her usual flourish. The words socked him in the gut nonetheless.

"Thanks," he whispered, returning the hug in full before raising back up.

"David?" A rhetorical question if ever one existed.

At his nod, she surprised him again by simply stating, "He did good."

"I guess Pine Valley's kinda used to this whole thing by now."

She waved a hand. "But of course. The whole risen from the grave, so passé."

Sharing a smile, they turned, shoulder-to-shoulder, as they again played temporary intruders on the proceedings. Assorted tuxes and dresses milled in the background, confused extras to the star attractions that had stolen the show.

"You might want to corral your guests and smooth things over. They're probably not schooled in the ways of us hard-core townsfolk," Leo observed.

"Well, they'd better learn fast, if they plan to stay in this town long."

Erica glanced up at him, a reminder of how amazing – and a little scary – it was to talk to someone a few good feet below you and still feel as if they were meeting you eye-to-eye. Only two people in his life had ever invoked that feeling.

"You were going to Greenlee?" Another skill of hers. The question that never really becomes a question.

His hands fidgeted in his pockets. "She already knows."

"I surmised as much."

And his eyes squinted. "And so does your daughter."

That did catch Erica's attention. So much so that he was preparing for his first sound lecture, or at least a good old-fashioned Kane wallop, when Erica reached her hand out expectantly.

He took it partly because he was relieved, and touched, to be spirited away by a familiar face…and partly because he didn't want to find out what happened if he refused an Erica Kane dictate.

"If I may ask, where are we going?"

Erica quirked one sculpted eyebrow. "To see the rest of your family, of course."

####

"Have you tried this?"

Normally, the resulting smirk would give him pause.

Then again, normal flew out the window the minute he took on David Hayward as a lab partner.

David, who was now adjusting the serum to Joe's specifications, and carefully adding the volatile chemical Joe suggested. He held the clear liquid up to the light, then slid a droplet under the microscope. That smirk only grew.

Joe didn't know whether to feel hopeful, or worried.

After a few interminable ticks of the clock, David looked up and offered one frank assessment: "By Joe, I do believe we've got it."


	39. Chapter 39

I took a bit of a different approach, point-of-view wise, for parts of this one. Fingers crossed that it translates okay!

####

"I will talk with Stuart, explain the situation."

"That's…probably best. Even though he's not symptomatic, we need to ensure –"

"David, how is she?"

Erica had to hand it to him. When Leo decided to 'come out,' he swung the door fully open.

The fact that poor Joe looked every bit like a ghost had just tapped him on the shoulder did not even register to Leo or his brother; they were much too preoccupied with picking up a seemingly half-finished argument.

"Leo, where the hell are? –"

"They're with their family. They'll be here. Right now, I'm here, and I want to be with _my_ family."

Leo, finally mindful of the increasing attention he was getting from the hospital's assorted staff, clutched David's shoulders and moved them to a more private corner. Erica did the same for a still-frozen Joe, leading him to a nearby seat.

"Erica –"

Erica shook her head, giving him a rueful smile. "It's David, Joe. Heck, it's Pine Valley." As if that explained everything. And, truthfully, it did.

After a few moments, the two brothers turned to Greenlee's room. The tension seemed to have left their bodies, and David's palm remained on Leo's shoulder as he led him inside.

"What is happening, Joe.?"

The doctor, finally at least partially emerged from his daze, rose and moved to the hospital room's small window. Erica followed. "God willing, we are about to save Greenlee's life," he said.

As David and Leo approached the room's only other occupant, the weight that had temporarily been eased in her chest at Joe's words reasserted itself.

Jack…he didn't –

The two new entrants blocked him from her view. Erica began to rush inside, but Joe's hand gently stopped her. "They need to work through this on their own."

Hesitantly, she nodded. After what seemed an eternity, she saw him; a million emotions crossed Jack's face. The final expression, his default, had settled on his lips, in his cheeks. In his eyes: unbridled devotion.

And unending love.

He had stepped aside, giving Leo his place at Greenlee's bedside.

Her eyes moved quickly to David and the IV drip just before Jack's gaze could catch her. When she could look again, when was not paralyzed by her own emotions rapidly galloping away from and toward her, she found those swirling storms in his eyes hadn't abated. Hadn't hidden.

They had intensified.

#### (_Zach_)

Hockey is a game of strategy.

A violent dance, a dizzying choreography reserved for the most discerning judges. It is marked by the unmistakable glare, claiming supremacy as it sweeps the vast white landscape in search of a vulnerability, an unattended land mine.

You must prepare equal parts offense and defense: essential components in a champion's arsenal. You must familiarize yourself with your strengths. More crucial still, you must study fault as steadfast as a scientist might evaluate a newly discovered specimen.. Before you can exploit your opponent's weakness and murder your own, you must first know weakness. You must play defense.

Hockey is a game of strategy, but the simple truth they conceal is this: hockey is a sport of luck. When you stand on that burning ice - when that stinch of sweat and the feel of newly shaved ice exhilarates and intoxicates you - you are exposed. You are a running, hunching, grunting vulnerability. Fickle sheets of white seek your partnership, switching sides and allegiances on a whim. Unseen traps lay in wait, ready to avert your best-laid plans. All the while, scattered or plentiful dots - what one might assign the label of human spectators - can shift a leg with cheers or tighten an arm with silence.

When you are part of a team, though, strategy is your ace. You must plan, you must plot, and above all, you must know your partners. Your minds must become one, your resolve a singular unity.

Trust.

Ah, there's the rub.

Hockey is ultimately a sport of trust. Who will make the first move? Who will gain the advantage? Who will trust?

When an unfortunate slip or perhaps a wayward fist temporarily takes you out of the game - this, this is the true test. While you play in the penalty box, you must trust in your team. You must trust that they will stare down the hungry eyes of the enemy with a ferocity that leaves the offenders slack-jawed and awed. Then, together, you defy the odds.

You go for the win.

And when the white coat with the messy handwriting and the monotone voice invites you for a game in his rink, you are prepared.

When he says, 'Come in. Have a seat.,' you smile and squeeze your partner's hand.

Game on.

#### (_Tad)_

Five minutes.

The time it takes to burn the ends off a microwave pizza.

The time it takes to make a run for the boys' room while the used-car salesmen and their rugrats take over the airwaves.

…or the time it takes for one of the best days in your life to turn into one of the worst.

Minute one: you're convinced that you stumbled into some wonky psychedelic dream, because this whole set-up, it looks a little too familiar. Then again, she's always the one who seems to show up when you need her, no matter the method. Maybe she knows that right now…right now you could probably use your baby sister back.

Minute two: while everybody else is busy gasping or fainting or just settling on the fish-mouth, you're grabbing onto the staircase like your life depends on it…and hell, maybe it just might. That piece of knicked-up wood is putting one hell of a pinch on your palm, but that's exactly what you need. The pinch: the 'hey buddy' wake the hell up call. But it's not working. It's not working because your other hand, it doesn't wanna play the game. It wants to break the rules and reach for the dream. And just when you're right and convinced that it'll snatch a nice hearty dose of reality for you -

Minute three: it steals a little piece of heaven for itself. Plucks the angel right from the biggest cloud and takes possession for all its worth. And she's smiling at you and you're vaguely, just vaguely aware that somewhere, somehow, a few more angels have crash-landed. And you know the anger and the fist-fights and the demands will probably come, as they always do, but not today. Not now. Because now – now is pretty undeniably, pretty unequivocally, pretty amazingly awesome.

Minute four: you lob a few of the obligatory questions. You are a detective, after all. Funny thing is, you don't pause, or breathe, long enough for the answers. In fact, you don't really stop to breathe until you are sobbing and laughing in her arms, roles reversed. Until you're privileged enough to reintroduce your mother to this new, infinitely brighter world she had temporarily vacated. Until you're all together again. Together…

Minute five: a scream pierces this bubble because on the balcony, a different kind of star has captivated the ctowd's attention. One with wild eyes and a snarl to match. It's the face of a savage…and the unmistakable face of the woman you love. You manage to push away that thing clawing at your throat and you call out her name. And even from the distance, you can see she's got her own fight going…and it's not the kind won with fisticuffs or knives. But you know, you know it could just be the fight of her life. And you won't let her do battle alone.

The closer you get, the flickers of recognition become flames, and you can't help but smile and reach out, because she's winning. And when she falls, you catch her. You will, forever.

And when the room's two testaments that maybe, just maybe somebody is up there listening indicate that the hospital just might have all the answers, who are you to argue?

You gather her up, you nod to your sister and best friend, who are temporarily captured in their own moment, their own mini-reunion, and you follow the best damn doctor you'll ever know.

You take a leap of faith, again.

Why not?

#### (_Leo_)

It's poetic, really. Or a bad country song. The spoiled princess and the con-man.

What do you do when you stumble across this girl crying her eyes out in a wedding dress?

They tell you in every chick-flick. You take her in your arms, and whisper how everything's gonna be okay. Then she fixes you with those shiny eyes, and your lips meet in a moment that transcends time, place, space.

Or, there's the other option. You sling her over your shoulder as she rages at the world and tells you, in so many words. to mind your own damn business.

You get the message, except you don't.

You wouldn't let me.

A crying girl, who hasn't seen that? It's practically a badge of honor for those aforementioned chick flicks.

But a girl with a mean right hook? A girl they said was a cold-blooded bitch?

Or a girl with the eyes of a kitten? A girl who put me in my place? You, the dichotomy.

The girl that flayed me open, guts and all. Yeah, I know, gross but true.

The girl that ripped herself up for me, too. Hell, who needs priests and lawyers when you've got a snarky socialite as your deepest and darkest confessor?

That girl was my best friend.

That girl was the love of my life, even though the both of us were too crazy-blind to see it for too long.

That was you.

That was us.

Do you want me to say you're scaring the hell out of me? Yes.

Do you want me to say I'm giving up?

No.

I'm way too pig-headed, and I need you to remind me of that fact every day. Don't laugh. I'm guilt-tripping you. I'm selfish, but what do you expect from yours truly? Not poetry, but the truth. The truth, the whole truth, and nothing but…you know the spiel.

My heart - you're it.

Don't break it

Wake up, baby. Please.

####

And she did. Surrounded by a small but formidable army. Hugs and smiles were exchanged all around, the most lingering occurring between the two reunited lovers.

How…touching.

A few gulping gasps, but otherwise, no complications. None at all.

The figure entrenched by her own battalion a few rooms over was not quite as fortunate. The movements were more frenetic, the faces of the doctors more worried. At one point, as bodies crammed into the door, not a pindrop was heard – save the soft thumps of the hurried compressions and the loud whispers of numbers.

Markers, or a final countdown, to be determined.

Yet fate, once again, appeared to be offering a kind word for Pine Valley Hospital's patients today.

Dixie too was restored to her ragtag motley crew of faithful soldiers.

Even dear Alexander Cambias, Jr., forever pondering whether medical error, or factors decidedly more basic, made him into a man capable of cold-blooded murder - even this poor, forever-tortured soul was the beneficiary of good news on this day.

Words that eased, words that lifted, words that truly began a new chapter…

She scans the video monitors one last time before reaching for the telephone. Not those computers that passed for phones today, but a true classic.

The silence replacing the dial tone both amuses her and….unsettles.

"It is time."


End file.
